The Gold Club: A White Collar Crime Thriller

by David Haskell

  Waving politely at the departing van, he could see the headquarters off in the distance. Seeing it gave him the motivation to step up his pace, and also got him to thinking about what he was going to do afterward. He was still broke, so he’d have to get in touch with someone back home at some point, but unless he used the phones in the complex he had no money for even that much. He supposed he could call someone collect, but did people even do that anymore? He decided that he would take advantage of the internal phone system if he had the chance, otherwise he’d figure something out later.

  Just then, two new pains struck him at precisely the same time, in very near the same spot. Both on his left side. The stitch was a result of his sudden uptick in walking speed. The bowel cramp that accompanied it a reminder that the alcohol, and the stress, had filtered deep into his system. His last finished business on the train had lasted far longer than he had a right to expect, and he needed a bathroom—badly.

  ~ 37 ~

  Escapes

  Ted stared into the monitor. It should’ve worked. It was supposed to work. He’d entered the codes just the way Phil had instructed. And yet the machine refused to accept his commands. He zeroed in on the blinking cursor, casting about for some clue, as though the machine would provide one. To his astonishment, it did—with one eye on the cursor, he suddenly noticed it wasn’t the only blinking object in the room. He’d almost missed it, just on the edge of his peripheral vision, underneath and to the side of Fangue’s thick desktop. A rhythmic flashing at odds with the cursor, looking like a disorganized game of pong between the two. A silent alarm.

  He ran for the door, skidding to a stop in front of it. He pulled hard, but there was no give. Gasping in pain from the wrenching it gave to his shoulder, he tried again with the other hand. The door remained sealed. He was locked in.

  Turning back to the office, he realized he’d wasted too much time, even if he could make the door cooperate. The authorities were certainly on the way—he had only minutes to spare. Besides, he had no clue how to reset the door anyway, so that was out. He stepped around the desk and looked out the window. No police yet. The warehouse floor was ghostly deserted, but it wouldn’t be for long.

  He thought about his options. There was only one that seemed feasible, but it was dangerous. Out the window, down to the floor. Getting out wasn’t hard, it was just sliding glass. But he had no idea how to get down from there. He wished he’d paid more attention to the layout when he’d had the chance. All those times he’d stood on the floor and looked up the windows, wondering who was looking down from there, he’d never thought to examine the windows themselves. Who takes in details like that? He certainly never did. Is there a catwalk? Fixtures I could grab hold of? He simply had no idea.

  Only one way to find out. He slid the glass open and stuck his head out, giving himself a stomach lifting bout of vertigo. Several stories straight down to an unforgiving concrete floor. No catwalk. No fixtures. Leaning as far out as he dared, he looked along the side to his right, nothing useful, then left. Bingo.

  There were grooves etched along the top and bottom of the glass fixture, stretching all the way to the next bank of windows. The executive wing was there, within reach, assuming he could get all the way over and slide the window open.

  Side-stepping over to the very edge of the room, he twisted himself around and stretched, taking deep breaths so panic couldn’t take hold. His feet were still planted firmly on Fangue’s floor, he wouldn’t let go until he was sure he could hold on out there. Even so, his stomach was doing flip-flops over the precarious position. One false move. He shook his head, trying to shut up his racing mind so he could focus on this insane maneuver.

  Feeling around for the groove with his fingers, he stuck his right hand into it and grasped the lip experimentally. It was solid. Not a bad fit, either. The dirt and grime of years past oozed out over his fingers, stuck in there since construction probably, but otherwise it felt almost made for climbing. Ted reached up with his other hand, got a comfortable grip, then eased the rest of his body around until he was sticking out the window backwards. Then he tested, pulling more and more of his weight up, making sure the grooves would hold. They did, so he eased his right leg over and out, cautiously slipping it into the bottom groove. This was a good deal trickier, as his ability to grip the top was hampered by his shoes. He debated removing them, but determined it wasn’t worth it. Besides, socks had a tendency to be slippery. No slippage, that was rule number one.

  Once he got his right foot situated, he slid it over as much as he could, then stopped cold. The moment of commitment. Once his other leg was out, there would be no turning back. Not that turning back was much of an option anyway, with the cops on their way. Just then, as if he’d mentally summoned the bastards, he caught movement in the corner of his eye, out of the tunnel that opened onto the lower docking bays. There looked to be flashlight beams criss-crossing out there, along with flashes of blue and red. It was only a matter of minutes before they would be on top of him.

  With the added pressure of being a highly visible target, Ted threw caution to the wind and flung his leg out the window, taking care not to look down. He struggled to find good purchase, but everything he touched seemed shaky and loose. Once he was settled into position, he began to edge along the wall-face; right hand, right foot, slide, right hand, right foot, slide his way along the makeshift rock-wall.

  Sticking with that notion, he thought back to the many times he’d tried out rock-walls of varying difficulties over the years. He’d even climbed one on a cruise once, right on top of the ship. But those adventures came equipped with experienced trainers and plenty of safety equipment. There was none of that here. Then he recalled the inevitable fall that concluded each experience, and had to fight to rid himself of the image.

  None of that, he muttered to himself, trying to blank his mind and go zen. That worked for a while, but it slowed him down. He didn’t dare turn to look behind, fearing the vertigo would get him, but he knew they were out there. Might have caught sight of him already, if they were scanning the interior, but it was a big warehouse. For the moment he was unobtrusive. He focused on keeping it together. Right hand, right foot, slide.

  Looking down, he realized that he’d moved pretty far along. Far enough that he was no longer above solid concrete, in fact, but the boxes below him didn’t offer much comfort. There was no way of knowing what was in them, for one thing. They were stacked deceptively high, so as to make it all seem less precarious, but he quickly reminded himself that was a false assumption. They could be full of hunting knives. Or power saw blades. He wasn’t going to take the chance, anyway, it was still a long way down no matter what rushed up to meet him in the end. Moving on, then. Right hand, right foot, slide...

  He’d worked his way over a few feet more with his hand, foot, slide method when he heard a whoosh, coming from behind and to the right, like a gust of wind. He barely had time to look back when the gigantic object slammed into his shoulder, knocking his feet out from under him. Whatever it was had sailed back the way it came, but now Ted was dangling. He kicked out, trying to regain his position before his arms gave. When the whooshing sound hit his ear again, he didn’t have to turn around to know it was coming straight at him this time. Cringing, he splayed open his hands and dropped.

  When he hit the first layer of boxes, he felt like he’d almost completely stopped, but at the same time he felt a give and knew that there was more to come. After that, he tumbled in stages, landing on his back, then his already aching shoulder, the other side where an arm bent back painfully, then his back again. When he came to rest, he was still a good ten feet off the ground, and he felt something soft shifting under his weight. He froze, trying not to move a muscle lest he fall further, only daring to turn his head to get a look at what had broken his fall. He felt a tinge of amusement at the sight of ladies coats and assorted, colorful garments. His impact had released them from their boxes, and they’d tumbled about the spa
ce like a bargain basement sale had just exploded.

  Still on his back, he saw the crane arm swing over a third time, slamming into the place he’d been clinging to moments ago, leaving a jagged crack on the wall from the impact. The shock of realization hit him just then, he might have been killed if he’d not let go when he did. As if to remind him of that fact, his injured shoulder came back to the forefront with a vicious throb. Adding insult to the injury, the other shoulder resumed hurting as well. However this all worked out, he knew that luck was working overtime in both directions. Bad in that he just happened to be the bystander when a crane accident occurred, good as far as having something relatively benign to land on.

  With a deep breath, he rolled over onto the less painful shoulder, and skidded his way down the last few feet to the floor. He hit harder than he expected, the momentum bringing boxes down on top of him, a good deal heavier than the contents had been, and he had to rest a few seconds more before pushing them off. Then he listened, wondering if the police had been watching the whole thing. But it was near silent, save for the creak of the crane swinging above his head. They weren’t inside yet. He might still have a chance. He looked up at the windows, feeling his guts dip at the realization of just how high he’d been, and how close he had come to harm’s way.

  * * *

  Son of a bitch. Judy had not only wasted her best shot, it hadn't even put him out of commission. She wasn't aiming to kill, but she had expected it to take him out of action for a while. The fall didn't even seem to phase him, though. Watching him crawl out from under the boxes, she had to wonder whether she'd underestimated Ted Ward and what kind of fortitude he brought to the table.

  She had at least one more shot, and reinforcements on the way. As long as she, or the cops, got to him before he got to the executive suite, all would be well.

  ~ 38 ~

  Alternatives

  The cramp in his side had subsided to a tolerable throb. The time it had cost him wouldn’t be easy to make up. His stomach cramps were worse than before, though, and he used that fact as motivation to get himself through the back door. He spent the final minutes in a pain-ridden, half sideways hold-it gait, rehearsing his lines. He was an out-of-state technician sent to evaluate the system, this laminate was the only ID he was given, he had time-sensitive reports to file, and he had to get in right away.

  The speech flooded out of him the minute he got to the security booth. “I’m an out-stater tech come to evaluate the system and this is the ID they gave me.” He sucked in a deep breath and continued, “Reports are due so can I ooohh.” That last utterance came complete with a scrunched down, hand-over-gut demonstration of his predicament.

  Without so much as a peek at the laminate, the guard buzzed him through. “Second door on your leff’,” he called out. Phil waved a thank you as he trotted clumsily in that direction, moving as quick as his side-stitch allowed. He breathed a sigh of the utmost relief when he entered the bathroom. Like all Sahara facilities, the floor was spotless and the countertops pristine, and the stalls looked the same as the ones he was accustomed to. It felt like home.

  Phil emerged fourteen minutes later a new man, though the pain in his side still nagged. Now that he’d taken care of vital necessities, he was ready to have at it. He just had to find it first.

  Tempted to go back to that helpful guard, he dismissed the notion, instead plunging down the first long hallway he could find. Look like you know what you’re doing, he began repeating under his breath, and don’t lose your cool if you’re stopped. Look like you—

  A young technician popped out of a side-office and was walking, stride for stride, beside Phil. There was no escape, if a conversation was to be struck up Phil could do little to avert it. He tried his best to look away and slow down, but the youngster matched pace and stayed right abreast of him.

  Phil tried picking up the pace, but his corridor counterpart matched his stride. Walking slightly downhill and deeper into the complex, the only way to shake this guy would be to turn around and walk back the way he came. He could try a side door, but Lord knows who or what might be behind it. Better to stick with the known threat, rather than look for new ones.

  The stranger turned to him and spoke. “Hey! Aren't you that fella from Ohio? Phil Caldornian?”

  Fight or flight kicked in. Phil thought about shoving the man aside and running for it, but that would've taken more aggression than he had in him. Instead, he put his head down and answered, “Not sure who you're talking about.” Then he added, his voice booming in the empty corridor, “That's not me, okay?” His furtive glances were making him dizzy, but he didn’t dare risk eye contact at this point.

  “Oh,” said the stranger, “sorry then. I just thought you kinda looked like him is all—my mistake.”

  Phil stepped up his pace. “No problem. Sorry, got to go.” He was practically trotting at this point, but the kid stayed with him. What's wrong with this guy?

  “I don't mean to be rude or anything, but I really need to get down to the SDC and I don't have time to waste.”

  “Oh, well if that's where you need to be, you should know you're going the wrong way.”

  Damn. Late, robbed, sick, and now this? He was half ready to turn back and seek help from that security guard after all. He’d been nice enough the first time around. But that would waste more time, and the clock was ticking faster now. He had to get this done, and then get word to Ted to watch his back. If that Brandi person had been sent by Fangue, who knows what kind of roadblocks he had ready for Ted. But first, get the job done. That was the only way to ensure that Ted didn’t have kittens when he tried explaining everything. He decided to give up and turn to yet another stranger for help.

  “Yeah,” Phil began, “I guess I got myself turned around. Would you mind?”

  “You’re looking for the SDC mainframe, then?” said the stranger.

  He had the demeanor of an infotechie, so Phil was banking on camaraderie to see him through. If that wasn’t enough, he could still play the seniority card. That’d been his fallback plan. The more time he spent in this unfamiliar facility, though, the less confident he was in being able to pull it off. It’d been so much easier practicing confrontations in front of his bathroom mirror, safe at home and all alone.

  “Yes,” Phil said, keeping his voice in a low register in an attempt to sound authoritative. It came out like child’s play, forcing him to clear his throat. He felt sheepish, but the stranger didn’t notice. He was squinting at the wall markings and counting doors. First back the way they came, then down the slope until he’d apparently counted them all. Then he repeated the process; walking forward a few paces, then back, then hesitantly forward again. It seemed that Phil wasn’t the only disoriented goon in the place today.

  “Oh, it’s three doors down on the left?” Now it was the stranger’s turn to look sheepish. “I got myself mixed up.” He laughed. More of a bray than a real laugh, which felt like warm comfort to Phil. A kindred spirit all this way from home, that had to be a good sign.

  The stranger took him in a roundabout way to the mainframe, stopping twice to ask directions. Phil didn’t dare speak up, attempting to blend into the woodwork while his awkward friend got reoriented. Phil was less concerned with directions than with all those employees that should never have seen his face, but there was nothing he could do about it. Fortunately, like the rest of Sahara, this place was full of people too preoccupied to worry about others. So he felt he’d probably escaped notice.

  Just outside the mainframe, he had a stroke of good fortune. His escort slammed into another preoccupied colleague. Each other’s possessions flew out onto the floor in a clattering hodgepodge that included, unbeknownst to either of them, a cellphone.

  Phil waited to make sure they were both engaged in retrieval, then he strolled over to the phone, stretched out with one foot, and tapped it into a corner. He would come back for it later, once the coast was clear.

  He thanked his accidental g
uide and waited for the man to depart. Getting around by himself would’ve been next to impossible under normal circumstances, but predictable Infotech geeks had jammed all the doors so that they could move in and out freely, so there were no locks or barriers to contend with. Again, just like home. Almost too easy.

  He went back for the phone. It was still there–a genuine stroke of good luck. Gadget-heavy enough for him to assume it’d belonged to his guide, that also meant it was powerful enough to trigger the attack remotely. He checked the time. Given his problematic morning, he wasn’t in terribly bad shape. If he could trigger the DNS attack now, Ted might still have time to do his part. He snapped the housing off the back of the device, examined the innards with a practiced eye, and carefully inserted the trigger. Then he turned it on and punched in the go-code.

  * * *

  Phil’s jaw went slack as he gawked at the stacked-up assemblage of servers, mainframes, and assorted spinning, flashing eye-candy all around him. Disneyland for Dweebs, that was the phrase used on an internet documentary capped off by a tour of Sahara’s supercomputer. He’d never really thought it rang true until this very moment. He definitely felt like a kid in an amusement park, that was for sure.

  He stared for a couple of minutes before remembering what he was there for. With a shake of his head, Phil walked briskly down a gently sloping corridor, deeper into the data center.

  He felt like he was being asked to paint a mustache on the Mona Lisa. To deface this work of art, it was practically the same thing. He would be nothing more than a vandal. Hesitating, he felt around until his fingers made contact with the drives. Those insidious drives, ready to contaminate this beautiful system. It was so wrong.