There was a long pause. Ted resisted the urge to speak, letting Phil have the time he needed.
Finally, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now,” he said, parsing his words more carefully than usual. “You know, with all that’s—
“One drink, Phil.” Then he added, “Please?”
“Okay. One drink. Give me a few minutes...”
* * *
They ended up at that same place they’d gone out to the first time they’d hung out. Same dull atmosphere, still a good place for conversation. It took three beers before Ted was ready to talk, but thankfully Phil didn’t harp on the ‘one drink’ promise.
“You ever feel like everything you do, or decide not to do,”—he stopped and glanced up at the ceiling, organizing his thoughts through the haze—“all of it, I mean. Ever feel like it’s all wrong? Like you can’t do anything right?”
“All the time,” Phil answered, his gaze falling upon a piece of lint on the outer rim of his glass. He plucked a napkin, folded it into a square, ran it twice around the rim without touching the lip, then took a large swig.
Ted laughed. If only that weren’t true, which actually made it not funny at all. He thought about apologizing, but forgot just as quickly. “Marge is never going to forget what we did.”
Phil opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, and Ted guessed it was an aborted ‘told you so’. He was glad Phil balked, he didn’t want to hear that right now. “She might,” Phil said instead. It was a poor substitute, but at least it was non-offensive.
“She won’t. And she shouldn’t.” He rubbed his nose with his sleeve and picked up his beer. “Here’s to—” He’d raised his glass without thinking through the toast, almost going with ‘making all the wrong choices’, but that was too morbid so he settled on “—old friends”.
Phil complied with the ritual; Ted signaled for two more.
~ 27 ~
Deceptions
Dennis Hamm had taken up the habit of searching for new hits on this Gold Club he was getting so much credit for. He hoped to find some clue about the creators. They were a clever bunch, almost too clever to be working right under his nose. He wondered if it might simply be a hacker organization, unrelated to Sahara entirely, but there was no sign of forced entry. He could make a criminal matter out of it, find out for sure, but he was too tempted by the golden goose to risk it. Internal only, for now, unless something major required further intervention. But in the meantime, it couldn’t hurt to search.
More and more the club was cropping up in unusual places, writer’s blogs, chat rooms. Even advertisements. That last one threw him for a loop, until he realized that he’d set himself up to be targeted. That was no good. He didn’t want them to suspect it was management looking into them, that might make them pull the ads prematurely, eliminating a vital clue. So he adjusted his browsing patterns and made use of stealth mode, and the ads went away. He saved the link, just so he could run it by Fangue.
He went back to the one forum he remembered the name of—contentcreatives.com—and created a profile for himself. He posed as a young, starving artist. His first post was a long sob story about how he’d been at it for so long, just hoping to get a break by publishing with Sahara but the system wasn’t fair. The same crap he’d read every now and then when he’d bothered asking the vartist relations people to show him some of their work.
He had nine replies within a few minutes, and the topic had been viewed over 200 times. Wow, these losers have nothing better to do? He wrote back, elaborating, answering questions. He was careful not to mention the Gold Club, nor anything about leg-up methods just yet. He came off intentionally clueless, which worked like a charm. There were a dozen or so suckers willing to spill their guts to some stranger on the internet, divulge competitive secrets, reveal their entire background and history so as to open themselves to easy attack. No wonder they were all broke.
He dreamt of coming up with a trap for those bastards to fall into, one that would single out the ringleaders without drawing unwanted attention. He had visions of interrogating some hapless underling. Squeal and reveal. Then he could weed out the masterminds, and claim all their ingenuity as his own. Force non-disclosure agreements down their throats so that none could protest. He imagined it all going smoothly, his victims breaking under the pressure and coughing up all their secrets. And he would do it all himself, so that even his security goons wouldn’t be privy to the operational secrets the confessions would reveal.
But after a while he snapped himself back to reality. He was no interrogator. He knew how to be a prick, sure, and he knew how to work people down, but that only went so far. He needed a real thug for this task; someone who knew how to be a cop, knew how far he could push, all that ‘24’ kind of shit those guys did so well. He would have to rely on Hank Fangue for this, even though that filled him with regret. It would’ve been such fun to do it all himself.
* * *
The email was sent to an address Dennis Hamm had thought to be private and secure, though in hindsight he’d not covered his tracks nearly as carefully as he should have. His internet sleuthing career had attracted the attention of one resourceful individual offering an enticing proposal. The message promised a way to expose, and hand over, the Sahara employees responsible for the gold club. Hamm replied immediately.
The following day, she arrived in Portland and met him in a lounge out by the airport. He recognized her from security footage, but kept his mouth shut until he heard what she had to say.
“Let’s cut right to it, Mr. Hamm,” she began, stirring cream into a dark cup of coffee, “you know who I am, and I know you of course.”
“Fine, you know me,” Hamm admitted, “and I know you work for me, which is something you were pretty stupid to reveal by the way. So just what do you want from me?”
“Let’s just say we’re both interested in taking down the gold club. You have no way of doing this, though not for lack of trying, but I’ve already infiltrated the club at the highest levels.”
Hamm resisted the urge to grin, or react in any way, instead placing his hands on the table and pushing himself back. He rose from his chair.
“Wait!” she said, clearly confused. “Don’t you want to hear—”
“I’ve heard enough, young lady. I don’t take kindly to threats.” This was only a half-truth. He did hate the position this bitch had put him in, that much was true, but he was also using a negotiating tactic that had served him well over the years: Make them think you’re an irrational hothead, and any leverage they thought they had melts away.
“They know you’re trying to take credit,” she said quickly, lowering her gaze. “They’ll use that against you if you corner them.”
He counted silently to ten, then sat back down. Clearly she was the real deal, nobody else would know so much.
“So they have help from Infotech, that what you’re saying?”
“Something like that. I’m not entirely sure.”
“Thought you said you were in on it? ‘At the highest levels’, you said. Or did my ears deceive me?” He gave her a warning glare.
“It’s true,” she insisted, “I am in the inner circle. But they’re careful. More than careful—paranoid. I’m in, though. With your resources, I’ll be able to identify every one of them.”
Dennis Hamm thought it over. She could be just the ticket he’d been looking for. If those Infotech bastards are behind this, I’ll need someone on the inside to catch them off guard.
“We do this,” he growled, “we do it my way. Understood?”
“Of course,” she replied, fast returning to the cool, collected customer she’d been acting when he arrived. He didn’t like it. “We both want the same thing,” she added.
“We’ll see about that,” he said, “and no more internet bullshit, either. You need me, you contact me directly. I’ll see that you get through.”
“You want me to use my name?” She sounded incredulous/
; Like she expects to do all this from the shadows, with no risk? “You work for me, don’t you?” Hamm snapped. “‘Course I want you to use your name.” The sooner she acclimated to her new situation, the better.
* * *
It was difficult for Hank Fangue to anticipate the hackers’ moves. They left no trace, at least not in digital form. But they were out there, in the real world, and close by too. They were operating from somewhere within the company, and the company was finite. He knew he’d find them eventually, but he prided himself on exceeding expectations. He fully intended to have them rounded up before his idiot boss demanded an update.
Fangue had already learned as much as he could from a dossier of substandard employees, one of many he kept at the ready for such investigations. Either they hadn’t yet been approached by the hacker team, or one or more of them were lying. Since the hackers had been syphoning off more and more money for themselves and growing bolder, it was clear the group had been on a recruiting bent, another indicator that some on the interview list weren’t being truthful. He didn’t need to know how many there were, he only needed to flush one of them out. There was always a weakest link—he would find it. He made a call and asked for an assessment of the new people, and had it in front of him within the hour.
“The list of suspects you provided me contains how many new faces?”
“Seven. But I think only the first two are in the loop. The other five are low level, I think. Just there to push paperwork for the most part, nothing important.”
“Those other two though, you think they’re close with the leaders then?”
“Close enough, as far as I could tell. They interacted with the whole team, so yes. I’d say they’re probably close to the top. Closer than I am, anyway.”
“Okay, that’s good enough for now. You’ve done well.”
“I know. So what about my compensation?”
“It’s taken care of. Look for a petty cash reimbursement on your next pay cycle.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
“See that you do. But don’t contact me directly—you know the drill.”
“Yep.”
This one was working out perfectly. Fangue was glad he’d recruited her. He reminded himself to go through the books and handle the payoff personally, make sure there were no errors and that everything was taken care of. As long as she felt useful and well-treated, she was likely to continue providing valuable information on this hacker brigade, the kind of intel that could bring them down, if only she could get just a little bit closer to the top.
* * *
The launch party took place at the airport Sheraton, which sounded less than impressive, but given the one-horse nature of their little town it was a decent enough space. Normally such parties would be held in New York or Las Vegas for such a high-profile vauthor, but she specifically requested the location so she could invite her benefactors along. This original invitation had included executives, including Hamm himself, who sent his regrets via Phil’s computer after Ted had hastily written it up over drinks with Til. The last minute nature of the regrets made it unlikely the vauthor might attempt a second communication, and with Ted and Marge representing the executive wing there was little chance others would be missed.
It was about halfway into the party that Ted met his former nemesis, a chastened Ella Jones, who was fresh from her parole hearing and very much out-of-place at the event. She was a friend of the writer, which happened to be her last possible ticket to an invitation of such magnitude.
“Ted? Sahara Ted?” She was drunk, stumbling slightly as she squinted over her martini glass to get a better look.
Ted thought about trying an ignore and reposition maneuver, but Jones was right in front of him. When she forced him into eye contact, he smiled and extended a hand. “Ms. Jones. How are you?”
She shook with him, giving him a once over, like she knew who he was but was trying to remember just how well she knew him. Or whether she could trust him. “My, my. I never thought I’d get the chance to talk with one of the puppet masters, and here you are in the flesh.”
He gave no immediate reaction. She could believe whatever she liked, now that the company had had her declawed. Then he made a decision to play along. “You give me too much credit, ma’am.”
“Oh pleash,” the slur was evident, though still subtle, “call me Ella. All my friends do.” She reached out and slapped him on the shoulder, a try for playful, leaving her hand there too long for his taste.
He smiled and backed up a step, forcing her to retake control of her limb else it dropped. She put a hand to her face, realized it was the one without alcohol, and switched up.
“I must say, dear man, your people did a number on me over that messy business. A real number. You have anything to do with it?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to, Ms. Jones—sorry. Ella.” He didn’t like the first name basis, but had no intention of allowing her to correct him twice. Fortunately the host took the stage at that point and all eyes drifted up there, including Ted’s, and she seemed to get the hint after a confused minute or two.
* * *
As soon as Ted got in, he went to his study and wrote notes on what to ask Ella Jones. He wasn’t even sure how to approach her, so he jotted down ideas about that as well. He ended up going with a comment about how good it was to see her at the launch, and would it be possible for them to get together and catch up for real. Nothing too original, but he was banking on her state of intoxication, hoping she wouldn’t remember precisely how their conversation had gone. He moved over to the desktop computer, glancing at the notepad from time to time as he typed up the email. Then he realized that he had no address for her, so he ducked into the SDC—the acronym for the Sahara Data Center—to find the address she claimed for her personal business. Whether or not she intended that one to be public, he figured the more ‘insider’ he came off as, the more she would respect him. If he seemed to be on top of secret information about her, all the better—she had to be scared shitless of the Sahara demon brigade by now.
He read through once more, making sure it was friendly enough while still keeping a bit of an edge to it. It was just right, so he hit send. Then he surfed for a few minutes waiting for her reply. He was hoping to get this done soon, tomorrow if possible.
A casual five minutes later, though he had no doubt she’d gotten the message right away, she wrote back in the affirmative. Tomorrow was fine, lunch near the complex would be okay.
“Jesus Ted, when did you join the club?” Hamm gave Ted a once-over, indicating his displeasure along with a touch of distain. He reserved that particular look for employees he caught stepping out of line. This was the first time he’d aimed it at Ted.
“I, uh,” Ted struggled to come up with something plausible. ‘I just happened to strike it rich’ would hardly suffice. “I’m friends with one of the managers. He sneaks me in from time to time when it’s not busy.”
Hamm eyed him even more closely, so much so that Ted determined the lie needed more padding. “They like the club to appear busy all the time, you see. And when it’s a slow day the workers call in their friends to fill up the time slots.” He had no way of knowing if Hamm was buying it. “Sort of like an academy award seat filler, right?” he added weakly, grinning at the boss and hoping for the best.
Hamm never changed expression, but muttered a quizzical ‘Uh hmm?’, which Ted took for acceptance. “Just because I told the gals in my office that we’re golf buddies,” the boss grunted, “don’t think that means we’re going to be teeing off together now.”
Ted felt an immediate flood of relief. In the back of his psyche, he’d been dreading an offer to join up with the boss even more than the potential for exposure. “Of course not, Mr. Hamm.”
Hamm seemed to accept that, looking off into the distance as though Ted no longer existed. That was a cue for him to scram, and he took it gladly.
&
nbsp; * * *
Third time’s the charm, third time’s the charm, third time’s...Til reset back to her entrance. The dialogue turned and churned in her brain, reminding her that she wasn’t a hundred percent on it. Hadn’t been all morning in fact. Third time’s the charm...
The director yelled for another go. She sauntered in with feigned confidence, nailing the lines perfectly this time.
“Cut!”
Looking around, she knew before any words were spoken what she’d done wrong this time. Her mark was a good five feet to the left, she’d forgotten all about the damned thing. Now even the lackeys were ready to revolt—the nearest stagehand rolled his eyes at her and turned his back. Once they were against her, she had no hope of recovering the moment. Things began to spiral.
“Again!” the director yelled. “For Ms. Nune, of course.” He hit the ‘Ms.’ with particular scorn.
Once more back to the start, run the mantra, think of the lines...
“Go,” called the director, barely caring at this point. Fourth time’s the charm.
This time she muffed one of her comments, but overall the scene went smoothly enough. She found her mark and practically jumped on it, spitting out the rest of her dialogue in a long burst.
The director didn’t even yell cut this time, everything just sort of trailed off. She waited for notes or comments, or something, but it was all icy stares at this point.
Deciding nobody else was going to break the silence, Til said softly, “I hit the mark, didn’t I?” Wrong answer.
There was a collective expulsion of moans as the director tossed, his weatherbeaten copy of the script up in the air, then slumped down into his chair. Wow, she thought, they actually do toss it.
“Yes, my dear,” he said in a dangerously low tone, “you hit it just fine. Which is no wonder since you were watching it with your face in the floor the whole-god-damned-scene,” he punched a finger in her direction with each careful enunciation. “Again!”
Realizing that another take at this point would only result in tears and a meltdown, Til screwed up the courage to speak. “I need a minute.”
The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller Page 19