Gardener: The Roots Of Ancient Evil

by Jacob Mesmer

  His grandchildren would never want for anything, but he was very strict that his children not raise their children like some of the rich kids today. He’d already set up his will so that the bulk of his fortune would be passed to his two children, and only to their children once they reached thirty, and only if they earned a college degree with a 3.0 grade point average. He knew the economy was changing rapidly, and wasn’t altogether certain the United States would remain intact for another fifty years. There were stipulations in his will in the case of civil war or economic calamities of predefined parameters that would make it much easier for his children to access and distribute their inheritance as they saw fit.

  He scrolled through the research he’d compiled on Shea, wondering if he would unravel this mystery. Ricker and Winston seemed competent enough, but one thing that was the hallmark of world-class criminals was their long-range planning. They considered every possible way they could get caught, and took great pains to make sure that didn’t happen.

  He noticed his assistant standing patiently in the doorway to his office. He smiled at her and nodded. She walked in a few paces.

  “Sir, there’s a courier here, he says you need to sign for the package yourself, per the sender,” she said.

  “Hmm. Let’s see what this is, I don’t recall expecting anything,” he said, walking out to greet the mysterious delivery person. It was a company he wasn’t aware of. He signed the delivery receipt, taking his copy. He stood reading it, trying to understand. It had been shipped on a private courier from Austria. It was a box weighing about three pounds, about eight by twelve inches. He playfully put his ear to it, and then looked up at his assistant.

  “Well, it’s not ticking,” he said. He carried it back into his office and set it on his desk. Then he closed his door, something he rarely did. If it did come by air freight, then it would have been X-rayed. He didn’t have any reason to suspect anybody wanted to do him harm, at least going to such lengths to do so. He took a chance and opened it. Inside was a small mahogany box, on which was a handwritten note.

  Nelson, you don’t know me, but I’ve heard of your interest in the Shea Dynasty. There are those of us here who also suspect something is not quite the way it should be. There are various rumors that I won’t go into, but I would recommend looking into this. Find enclosed a hairbrush that belonged to Ada Rutledge, who is allegedly the great-grandmother of Dominic Shea, who has decided to be an American. I hope this serves you. Please do not try to contact me, or try to verify the authenticity of this. It was not acquired in a manner you want to be associated with.

  Prieto stood back. A hairbrush? What would he do with a hairbrush? Then it hit him. Of course. He sat at his desk and decided against calling Ricker, who might be in close proximity to Shea. Instead he called Marco, his associate.

  “Yes sir,” Marco answered.

  “Mr. Winston, I have a rather strange request,” Prieto said, the smile creeping onto his face.

  “Shoot,” Marco said.

  “When you and Mr. Ricker are safely away from Shea’s facility, please relay this message to him. I would like Mr. Ricker to get a DNA sample of Dominic Shea. Please consult with Willis to find out the best way, and what exactly to collect, as I’m not exactly sure,” Prieto asked.

  “Actually, I think we got somebody better than Willis on the DNA angle,” Marco said, chuckling.

  “What do you mean?” Prieto asked.

  “I’ll give Tommy a jingle, and then he’ll let you know. Or his DNA associate may give you a call directly,” Marco said.

  “Very well,” Prieto said, not really sure what he meant. Nevertheless, he started contemplating the implications. If this hairbrush did indeed come from a genuine Shea family member, and Shea’s DNA did not match, he would know for certain that Shea was an imposter. With that information in mind, he would shift his focus to Europe, and pay a hefty reward for any proof of Shea family artifacts. Certainly blood tests had been done, or if it was possible, bodies could be exhumed. Prieto wasn’t aware of the legalities, but this would provide proof. Proof that Dominic was an imposter. His phone rang, a call from his assistant.

  “Yes?” Prieto said pleasantly.

  “I have a Dr. Berg on the line, regarding some DNA testing,” she said.

  “Hello, Dr. Berg, you are working with Mr. Ricker and Mr. Winston, I assume?”

  “Well, sort of. Tommy and I are dating,” she said. “And I have a proposal for you, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” he said, sitting up.

  “I am in charge of what is likely the most cutting-edge genetic facility in the country. I will offer you my services, in conjunction with Tommy and Marco, on one condition,” she said.

  “Certainly,” Prieto said.

  “This part has to be strictly confidential,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “We’ve just received funding from a venture capitalist, and I have reason to suspect he might be more interested in corporate espionage,” she said, and then explained the uncle and the nephew story that she didn’t believe.

  “I see. Well, we certainly can help each other. If you can, send me whatever information you have on both of them, the uncle and the nephew, including their pictures. And I will have Mr. Ricker add Mr. Sikes and the nephew, on my behalf, as persons of interest in our investigation. I assure you none of this will be connected to you in any way. I have my own legitimate reasons for rooting out unscrupulous venture capitalists from what is quickly turning into a borderline illegal enterprise for many,” he explained.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Prieto,” Viviana said.

  “You have no idea how much you will be helping me, Dr. Berg,” he said, and ended the call. This was a wonderful development. This would help him to avoid commercial DNA testing facilities, which were notoriously inaccurate. Genetic research was a very new business venture, and if Dr. Berg was correct in saying her laboratory was the most cutting-edge genetic facility in the country, it might be worth a look as an investment.

  Thirty Two

  Max waited patiently for her to leave the relatively low-level-security parking structure. Seeing as how GenSpan had at least a hundred million in funding they would need to build a parking facility that had more than a chain-link fence and a guard shack. Max realized that they didn’t have much equipment yet; he’d been able to monitor and track their purchases easily enough.

  Viviana Berg drove a relatively modest car for a super genius who was pulling in only slightly more than a hundred grand a year. He’d considered sneaking a GPS tracking device onto her car, but she didn’t really go anywhere other than work, home, and the occasional restaurant with that boyfriend of hers.

  Max waited until she was sufficiently far ahead before pulling out into traffic. He could tell by which lane she was in that she was going to the grocery store three blocks ahead. When she was driving straight home, she stayed in the center lane until two blocks before the right turn to her apartment complex. She changed lanes in almost the identical place each time. Max wondered if being a scientist had something to do with how incredibly repeatable and unwavering her daily routines were. She would be incredibly easy to kill.

  He supposed she wasn’t the type to wander aimlessly through the supermarket filling up her cart with cleverly marketed junk food. She was the type to not only keep a list, but using her scientific brain she likely memorized it in seconds. This meant that her trip in and out of the grocery store would be less than ten minutes, judging by the number of people currently waiting in each line.

  Max parked about thirty yards to the left of the supermarket. He walked into the bagel shop and ordered a small coffee. He stood outside, next to his car. He looked around casually and then slowly poured the coffee onto the ground, holding his cup at waist level. Then he strolled back in front of the bagel shop and tossed his empty cup into the trash. The young girl inside smiled at him and Max returned the smile. He got back into his car, and just l
ike clockwork, so did his target. He waited one minute and watched her pull out into traffic and turn left, just as he’d anticipated. He waited another full minute, then pulled out and followed. He didn’t see her, but he knew where she was going so it didn’t matter. He drove by her complex and saw her car in its parking spot.

  If he’d put a mirror program on her phone, he would see her send a text or call Tommy. But he knew Tommy had a high chance of appearing at her complex within an hour. When Tommy showed up also carrying two plastic bags from a different grocery store, Max knew exactly what would happen. They would cook dinner together, they would drink a bottle of red wine, and then they’d have sex and fall asleep. Shea had been clear that Berg was to be eliminated, but not Ricker. Max turned the ignition back on and left, deciding to come back around eleven, when they’d be sleeping. He wondered how Ricker would respond if he woke up next to his precious Viviana with her throat slit. The thought caused him to chuckle.

  After a slow and light dinner, Max returned. He waited until one AM, but had already decided that he needed to be home and in bed himself by two. He had a heavy day tomorrow. A day that was much more important than this particular activity. He put on his gloves, and in his pocket had his toolkit. He walked toward the apartment complex, taking a circuitous route. Whether one was setting a bomb inside an enemy camp, sneaking into an apartment to assassinate a target, or carrying out financial crimes, patience and planning were always the most important. Also important was the ability, both emotionally and logistically, to abort the mission if the chances of success dipped even the slightest bit. Max hadn’t developed his reputation and income level by being reckless. If there was one light on he didn’t expect, he’d simply return home. But there wasn’t. The windows of the apartments below and next to Ms. Berg’s were dark, as were hers.

  He silently walked up the stairs. Stopped at the top. Closed his eyes and listened carefully. No whispers, no footsteps, no phone calls. He approached Berg’s door and carefully removed his tools. He easily bypassed both locks. Walked in carefully, taking each step with utmost care. Within a minute and a half, he was standing at the door to her bedroom. The door was open and the shades were drawn.

  He stood silently for a full three minutes, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When his night vision had fully materialized, he carefully crept into her bedroom. How sweet, two lovers embraced in naked slumber. He lowered his hand in front of each of their noses, felt their warm breath exhaling almost in sync. With a razor blade, one small slice and he would be out of her apartment before she even woke up. She would start to moan, perhaps even scream. Ricker would wake, thinking she was having a nightmare. He would reach for her, and realize she couldn’t speak. He would feel the wetness as he tried to console her. He would have to reach across the bed to turn on the lamp, getting her blood on him in the process. By the time the light was turned on, she would still be alive, but quickly losing consciousness. The fear and realization on her face would be priceless, something that would burn into poor Tommy’s brain for the rest of his life. Haunting his dreams. He would never be able to sleep next to another woman again without remembering the night he woke up next to his bleeding and dying girlfriend, his own hands covered in her wet death.

  Max would enjoy that very much. However, he also realized that would make Ricker fairly useless to Shea. Standing there in the dark, imagining how Ricker would react, he decided that she would have to die apart from him. Perhaps an auto accident. Perhaps by a cardiac arrest triggered by one of many chemicals Max could slip into her bloodstream unnoticed. Max had at least twenty-four hours to decide. Not tonight, Ms. Berg, but soon.

  Thirty Three

  “OK, so where are we with Ricker?” Jamie asked. He and his team were having one of their twice weekly meetings to brainstorm any cases that proved difficult.

  “Which one?” Corey asked. He’d been assigned point in all three of them.

  “Go through them one at time; three, right?” Jamie verified.

  “Laney Berg. I thought I was getting close, but several of the payments were initiated at different offshore banks, which are notoriously hard to crack into. They bounced each payment through several proxies spread out across the world, so tracking them will be fairly difficult. I’m still chipping away, though, I’ve got several different routines running round the clock,” he said.

  Jamie nodded, held up his hand to pause Corey while he wrote down his notes. Then he looked up and nodded.

  “Dominic Shea. We’ve got some basic info on some of the contractors he hired recently, but all the money he’s paid to them is from a local bank, and that is being funded, as far as I can tell, from a European source, again through a bunch of proxies.”

  “Is that common?” Jamie asked.

  “To go through proxies? Yeah. Anytime anybody’s hiding money, usually from the feds, they are very, very careful how they move it around. Most of these rich guys like Shea are very skilled at keeping their money secret. For example, Vladimir Putin is reported to have nearly a hundred billion, but nobody has been able to find it,” he said.

  “What about non-financials?” Jamie asked.

  “Well, again, this guy’s pretty secretive. Old family, old money. Probably insulates himself pretty well.”

  “Great. Next?” Jamie asked.

  “This guy’s pretty interesting. I’ve actually been able to dig up a lot on him. Preston Sikes, real name. Not married. Graduated in 1995 with a degree in business. Worked at several different companies, and then started doing consulting in mid two thousand. No debt to speak of, rents his apartment, drives a BMW 7 series, no extravagant trips. Was hired very recently by Edge Capital, which is the company that funded GenSpan. That corporation is fake as hell, but most venture capital companies are.”

  “What do you mean?” Jamie asked.

  “VCs are notoriously secretive. All of them want to be the first to invest in the next Facebook or Google. But if everybody knows who’s buying what, then it’s hard to get in on the ground floor,” Corey explained.

  “OK. So why does this Sikes guy, who seems like your run-of-the-mill consultant, suddenly become the front man for a seventy-five-mil operation?” Jamie asked. “Is that common?”

  “No, it is certainly not, and that’s what’s bugging me,” Corey said.

  “What do you mean?” Jamie asked.

  “All these investors, they pretty much own the company. There’s no reason to sneak somebody in there if you’re going to steal their patents. As the primary investor, you own the patents. That’s why they invest in the first place,” Corey said, frustrated.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Jamie said.

  “You spend fifty mil on a company, they cure cancer. If you’re the primary investor, you own that cure. Nobody would spend fifty mil on a company otherwise,” Corey said.

  “I see. So why would you do that, and then go through the trouble to put your own guys inside?” Jamie asked.

  “Well, generally speaking, there’re only two reasons to buy something. One is because you want it. The other reason is because you don’t want anybody else to have it,” he said.

  “Have you checked the proxy configuration?” Stephanie asked.

  “No, I haven’t gotten that far yet,” Corey admitted.

  “What’s that?” Jamie asked his two computer experts, who both grinned.

  “Sometimes you can ID an organization if they use the same proxy configuration. There’s only so many ways to send your money around the world. People tend to use the same, uh, people, to hide the flow of their money, so sometimes checking how their proxies are configured is a way to look,” Corey said. Stephanie nodded.

  “All right, well, look into that and see what you find,” Jamie said.

  Corey had returned to his office, and had several large screens showing the progress of the algorithms he’d started. He decided to check the proxy configuration of each case. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any kind of database of clande
stine individuals who helped hide the flow of money around the globe.

  He started with the Laney Berg case, since it was there first. The biggest payment she’d received had been to Kent State, in her name, where she was enrolled as a fashion design student. Corey backtracked all the places the money had bounced around the world, until it more or less vanished into a numbered account, which had no signature. He looked at the various points as they were displayed on his screen. Nothing stood out.

  He switched to Dominic Shea, and found zilch. As if the guy just showed up in Colorado Springs and fired up a bank account which was funded by another cluster of proxies.

  Then he looked up Edge Capital, hoping he’d see something a little more helpful. Saw the deposit into GenSpan. Saw that it came directly from Edge Capital, a one-month-old company. Backtracked the flow of money through several points throughout the globe, before it disappeared into a black box of nothing.

  Then Corey sat up. Flipped between the proxy cluster originating out from Kent State and the one emanating from Edge Capital.

  “Fuck. Me,” he said, and called Jamie without taking his eyes away from the screen.