The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  “Yeah, guess so.”

  “Bet they get hacked a lot, huh?” Ted joked, but Phil actually nodded.

  “They would,” he affirmed, “actually they’d be sunk if I wasn’t there. Lots of enemies, lots of attacks.”—Phil looked ill all of a sudden—“But they treat me okay,” he added, looking unsure of whether that came off as better or worse.

  Ted let him off the hook, opening his side of the car. “Bet they’d make for some strong allies though, in a pinch.”

  “Allies?” Still buzzed, and not fully processing the conversation, he said it like he was unfamiliar with the term. “What’d you mean, like for fighting or something?”

  “Something like that.” He didn’t bother reminding Phil that the same topic had been thoroughly examined in the bar. Ted still thought the idea was a good one, and even managed to hang on to it until he got inside and jotted it down.

  Ted stuck around a few hours, killing time with video games and youtube, until he felt sober enough to get himself home. Phil walked Ted to the door, then made him walk a straight line down the porch stairs and halfway to the car before handing over the keys. Back to normal, Ted thought, still drunk, but not in a worrisome way. By the time he got home, he’d forgotten all about the ill-mannered protesters and their association with his friend.

  ~ 23 ~

  Preparations

  The staffers called their convoluted system the ‘Hanoi Hilton’ method; top-down orders filtering through the network in elaborate fashion. While primitive, it had been refined to the point where it almost always worked. But when it came time for a real group discussion, including back-and-forth engagement and opinion sharing, attempts to turn this makeshift system into a real discussion forum had quickly devolved into an elaborate game of Chinese whispers. They needed to hold a real meeting.

  Having made the decision, the headaches were far from over; even the act of putting it together proved troublesome. There was heated debate from the start, even on a subject as simple as the nature of the conference itself—how they were going to host so many unrelated representatives in one space without attracting attention, and the more controversial question of where everybody stood in the pecking order.

  The solution to the first problem, in keeping with the spirit of the club, was to fall back on the old ‘Sham Information Session’ trick. They used the nebulous Infotech department as convenient cover, same as they’d done when assembling the team way back at the beginning. As for the question of seniority, after much angst and argument they agreed upon a democratic system—with Ted or Phil intervening only in the case of a deadlock. Marge was clairvoyant enough to quip, ‘Cause it works so well for those sons of bitches in the Senate!’, but everybody else thought the idea was a good one. Since they’d never found the need to structure the club before, there was no way of knowing which of them would be listened to, but more than a few of them saw the democratic idea as a way to climb the ladder.

  Then there was the matter of protecting their identities, something that Ted and Phil had been careful about in the past. Was it time to reveal themselves to the others? As it stood, Marge was exposed but nobody knew how high up the food chain she actually sat, so she was safe enough. In the end they determined that the three of them should remain anonymous. In order to add an element of confusion, they selected four more people to complete the panel of “newcomers” under consideration for staff positions. In reality, they were unrelated to the club. They were led to believe this was an internal survey, their part being to critique the design of the conference room.

  According to Phil, they wouldn’t see the group and the group wouldn’t see them. With no idea about how that was supposed to work, Marge and Ted had to see for themselves. Phil was more than happy to show them the little mobile studio he’d set up.

  “We’ll sit in front of our own cameras,” he explained, “but the monitors in the conference room will show us one-by-one. With all seven images up on the screen, they won’t be able to tell who’s who, and nobody will know we’re separated from the other four, unless they talk.”

  “We should keep those four out of the loop for a few weeks then,” Marge suggested, “just so they won’t tell anybody there was only two groups.”

  Phil shook his head. “We don’t have to. The other cameras are set up in separate cubbies, that’s the beauty of it. They won’t even see each other, they’ll have no clue.”

  “Okay,” Ted said, “So how does this protect us?”

  Phil looked over at his partner, his face betraying the usual impatience. “I was getting to that.”

  “Sorry,” Ted muttered.

  “It’s okay. So here,” he pointed at the cockpit-like bank of levers and switches, “I’ve set up a distortion pattern on the video feed, so they’ll only see just enough.”

  “Like shadows?” Marge asked.

  Phil sighed. He hated anyone questioning his methods, particularly when he was proud of whatever he’d cooked up.

  “Sorry,” Marge said quickly, giving a sideways wink to Ted.

  “Anyway,” Phil said, trying to recapture the attention of the others, “they won’t see shadows. They’ll see whole images, expressions, all that stuff. So we can have an effective meeting. The images will be pixelated, which will mask any distinguishing features. And the voice scrambler will do the same for our voices.”

  Ted and Marge nodded, careful to stay silent. This seemed to mollify Phil, who continued, “We’ll be able to see the whole meeting room, and we’ve got this”—he placed a palm on one of the joysticks near the bottom of the consoles—“to use if we want to pan around, move in closer or whatever.”

  Ted whistled. It wasn’t that he felt overly impressed, but Phil needed it. And it worked—Phil smiled and stepped back from his contraption.

  “So we’re all set, then?” Ted asked carefully.

  “We’re good to go,” answered Phil, chin up and looking pleased with himself.

  * * *

  Marge waited until Phil finished up his prep work, only then asking Ted for a minute of his time. He could tell from the look on her face that it was serious.

  “I wouldn’t have bothered you with this at all,” she said. “except that I might have to be in and out over the next few days. Meetings with lawyers, red tape, you know...”

  Divorcing, after all those years? “Wow. The big ‘D’, Marge?” Ted said. He was naturally concerned, but proud at the same time. This had been a long time coming. “You’re really doing it, then?”

  “I am. I really am. Finally I’ve come to the point where it’s my time, and my accomplishments, and I have no intention of letting that deadbeat get his hands on it. I already found a new place, great school district, upscale neighborhood. I signed the papers yesterday.” She was beaming, obviously in a better place than she’d been in for quite some time.

  Ted wanted to express his admiration to her, so he gave her shoulder a pat. It was far from adequate, and he might have offered more if he thought she would be open to it. What she really deserved was a nice big hug, but they’d never been demonstrative with each other before. It’s just too bad she’d waited this long, he thought, not without a tinge of regret. He wasn’t always as supportive as he could’ve been, and she’d been through a lot more than she let on. He knew how monumental this decision must have been. And none of her colleagues, not even the ones in the club, had made it any easier pulling her every which way with constant demands. He was glad she was finally taking care of herself.

  * * *

  Marge paid extra to rush the divorce through, moving herself and the kids in the few hours he was out getting hammered—sent on a fishing trip with his pals, worked every time. In the past she’d wanted him out of her hair for a day. This time was forever.

  He didn’t contest. Never even asked for visitation. She was incredibly saddened by that part. Still, with a bastard like that for a father, they were better off without him, even if they couldn’t understand it yet.

/>   Once they got settled in to the new place, the first order of business was to hire a full time housekeeper. What the kids didn’t know was that he was also a child care specialist. They were old enough to take care of themselves, mostly, but Marge needed help. She was too burned out and depressed to deal with homework or room cleanings or anything like that for a while. She was happy to pay for the extra service, focusing on herself for a change without worrying that her kids might be suffering for it. She felt selfish and horrible, but the alternative was even worse if she didn’t take care of herself.

  She arranged day trips and booked spa treatments, anything to take her mind off all those wasted years with a lousy spouse. She even took up baking, bringing in a specialist to show her how it was done. All the cooking she’d ever done had been of the practical sort; now she only wanted to concern herself with chocolate layers and filigree icing.

  * * *

  ...and so, my dear readers, it pains me to realize that we’ve fallen so far, but the question we need to ask ourselves now is, who is in charge at Sahara Incorporated? And whom do those people serve? Certainly not their humble reviewers, who have taken a backseat to payoffs and manipulation. And not you either, their amazing, thoroughly neglected readership. The hogwash they’re attempting to pass off as top-notch is hardly fit for the consumption of a discerning literary connoisseur. Which begs the next question, what can we—

  Fangue crumpled up the paper and tossed it. Bad enough she gets published on multiple sites online, now the New York Times has to cover it?

  Fine. She couldn’t leave well enough alone, couldn’t just shut up—so now he would shut her up, permanently. Grabbing his phone, he pulled up the contact information of an old associate, someone perfect for this kind of thing. A short conversation was all it took to set the trap.

  * * *

  Hank Fangue was in a hurry. Barreling his way down the corridor, he nearly clipped two errand boys and a secretary along the way, but they all managed to duck out of his path by way of instinctual reaction: Danger—use extreme caution!

  He ignored the receptionist and barged in. Hamm was standing just inside the door, and Fangue nearly smashed into him. Stopping short, thus narrowly avoiding the need to apologize, he noticed that Hamm had been engrossed in the very opinion column he’d come to talk about. This made him hesitate briefly, and Hamm looked up with an expression of amusement.

  “I take it you’re here to bring this,”—Hamm tapped on the paper—“to my attention.”

  “Something like that.”

  “She certainly seems to know a lot, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “She knows enough,” Hank said. The boss was right, she had them over a barrel. Threatening to expose Sahara’s ineptitude was a legit concern, even for him.

  So what do you suggest we do about it, then?”

  Fangue didn’t answer right away. He took a few deep breaths first, then he started pacing. The room wasn’t big enough, so he was forced to stop at the wall and act like he was admiring one of the prints. This weakened the effect considerably, so with a muffled swear he turned back to the executive. “Maybe we should set her up,” he said.

  Hamm raised an eyebrow. “Hardly the answer I was expecting.”

  “She doesn’t know anything yet, but that could change in a heartbeat. If we ignore it and it blows up on us, the media glare’s going to expose a lot.”

  The CEO nodded, his face a painful grimace. He knew it as well as Fangue did. “Okay then. We’ll do it your way. But I’m warning you, if it gets—”

  “I know. Plausible deniability, nothing leads back to the company.”

  “Good. Because if this ends up bringing down any heat, I’ll be damned sure the other prick in this room goes down right beside me.”

  Fangue didn’t acknowledge the threat. He would never give Hamm the satisfaction. Instead he moved directly to the next issue, placing an order of investigation on the desk.

  Hamm peered at it with suspicion.

  “I need your go-ahead to start an inquiry on this employee. He’s one of our coordinators,” Fangue explained, “and he’s management, so you need to sign off on it.” The fact that he needed permission to do his job grated on him, and he firmly believed Hamm had set it up that way on purpose, but he fought to keep his irritation from showing.

  The CEO went silent for a minute, staring at the paperwork. “You need to look into his work, do you? This Ted, uh...”—he looked closer, making Fangue happy to have left it mostly blank—Ward, is it?”

  “Yeah,” Fangue replied, “Ted Ward.”

  Hamm placed a curled finger over his lips. “No, I think not. Better let me handle that.” He picked up the order and placed it to one side.

  What the hell? Handle that? Hamm didn’t even know what Fangue was looking for. Hadn’t so much as asked for the purpose of the inquiry. But Fangue couldn’t press the issue without admitting he wasn’t as far along as he’d led Hamm to believe. No choice. Drop it.

  “Anything else?” Hamm demanded.

  “Actually, yes. There’s one more thing”—Fangue fished around in his pocket and pulled out an invoice—“What’s this payout for consulting? Ms. Brandi Snow, services related to security upgrades and loss prevention? The name didn’t match up, that’s how it got flagged. I haven’t heard a damned thing from Portland on this, but it tracks back to you, so—”

  “Give me that!” Hamm snatched the paper out of Fangue’s hand. Then he seemed to realize how petulant his behavior appeared. “I’ll handle it,” he said in a softer tone, “a project of mine, nothing you need to worry about.”

  Fangue gave him a sideways glance, then filed away the insult for later. One of these days, fat man, he joked with himself inwardly. Half-joking, anyway.

  The buzzer on the handset sounded. Mr. Hamm, your daughter on line two...

  “Tell her to hold on a second,” he barked, then turned back to Fangue. “We’re done for now. I’ve got to take this. Keep me informed on this one,” he said, tapping the newspaper again.

  Fangue pivoted and strode out. Behind him, he heard the boss muttering a curt, “Denise, what’ve I told you about office hours?” He shut the door. Denise, eh? Figures the egotistical bastard would find a way to name even a girl after himself. Pathetic.

  About to dismiss the entire conversation, he had an impulse to take one more look at the file. That name. Denise. It sounded familiar. Of course, Hamm had snatched the file away from him just then, so he couldn’t look immediately. But as soon as he got back to his office, he pulled out the backup copy. He always kept backups.

  “And as for you, Ms. Brandi Snow,”—he riffled through the papers, pulling the payment slip that he’d half glanced at earlier,—“alias Denise...Hamm?” Wow.

  * * *

  “I’ve decided to go off the grid,” Dennis Hamm said to Ted, who’d been summoned to the boss’ office without notice once more. That made three times in as many weeks. Hamm must be getting further paranoid with all these changes. This didn’t sound good.

  Ted hesitated to ask, giving the boss a prompt instead. “Sounds intriguing. How so?”

  “Well, I’m removing myself from the network for one thing.” Shit. “That presents a bit of a problem for you, I know. Sorry about that. But you’ll just have to take care of my files from here from now on. They won’t be accessible anyplace else.”

  Ted made a note to check with Phil on that point. He raised a finger and was about to protest when an upbeat voice echoed from down the hall. At first he wondered if it might be the secretary, back early from lunch, but this was far worse.

  “Is that an orientation?” Hamm asked, his tone of dread confirmed what Ted had feared. “Quick! Shut the door!”

  Ted leapt for the door, had just got his hand around the brass handle when he saw nine sets of eyes staring at him.

  “Oh my goodness,” the newbie tour guide gushed, “I had no idea we’d have this opportunity. It’s our CEO, everybody! Dennis Hamm!” She seemed
like she was holding for applause. When none was forthcoming, she jumped ahead. “Oh, Mr. Hamm, I hope we’re not disturbing you...”

  Hamm forced a smile. “Not at all, not at all.” He stepped out from behind the desk and strode toward the door, forcing Ted out of the way in the process. Clearly he didn’t want any of them in his office. “How nice to see such bright young faces, ready to join the team!”

  * * *

  It took Hamm several minutes to dismiss the group. Consequences of maintaining a bullshit public image, Ted thought with wry amusement. He was glad for the distraction, taking the time to think through his options. Losing access was unacceptable, it would devastate the club. The whole enterprise depended on navigating the system from the highest levels.

  “Okay then,” Hamm was saying, “I’d better be getting back to it.” Ted wondered if the human resources lady knew what a precarious situation she’d put herself in. He saw Hamm scowl in her direction every time she looked elsewhere. “You youngsters listen carefully, take it all in. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully.” He waved them away, and as the group shuffled off he turned, his expression still kindly for a split second longer. Then it morphed, back to the fearsome visage Ted was accustomed to. It was almost a relief. Hamm slammed the door. “Where the hell were we?”

  “You were explaining how I’m going to access the files now that you’ve decided to limit terminal locations?”

  Hamm did a double-take that stopped him for a second. “Right. Access,” he said as though the idea had been his all along. “Access is going to be tough, no doubt. You’ll have to hold off until I’m around, I’ll let you in and you can get your work done then. I need to work out how to explain it though.”

  “Right!”—Ted acted like he was taking mental notes—“Like we’re friends outside the office, you mean? That kind of thing?”

  “Exactly! Let’s just say golfing buddies, that’ll do. I’ll run it by the office girls, and then it’ll seem perfectly natural for you to be around from time to time.”