GrayNet

by D S Kane

  CHAPTER 9

  October 3, 6:48 p.m.

  Wailea Spa and Hotel,

  Maui, Hawaii

  Like most Hawaiian afternoons near the end of hurricane season, the day was bright blue with a wispy breeze that carried the scent of tropical flowers. The storms of September had passed. Sanji Morikono knew this was weather—and a view—that would cause almost any visitor to smile. But, as he watched the waves gently lick the shore from the window view of his office, high atop the Wailea Spa and Hotel in Maui, it wasn’t soothing. He was haunted by demons—all real ones—and found it difficult just to stay calm. Morikono suffered doubly because the demons were of his own making.

  Almost ten years ago he’d had a dream to build the most spectacular hotel in Maui, one whose elegance would be revered. He used every penny he’d saved and everything he could borrow to plan what he was sure would be the finest hotel in the world. On that score, he’d succeeded. The hotel became one of the most sought after by celebrities. Those who could afford it stayed in a private section of rooms called the Nippon Tower, with room starting at $2,500 per night. Very wealthy families wanting their own private suites paid $15,000 per night. Heads of state, rich movie actors and actresses, and sports stars stayed and came back often. The rooms for common folk outside the Tower were relatively less expensive, starting at $350 for the least expensive room.

  But during the recent economic decline, peak season occupancy had plunged from eighty-five to forty-five percent, and he fell to the verge of bankruptcy. The last three years had been unkind to Morikono. He’d been growing fat before the economy cracked apart. Now he was gaunt. He shook his head, walking to admire the view from the picture window, then back to his desk. He saw the latest financial reports on his desk, and grimaced.

  He’d needed money to supplement operations and keep himself from bankruptcy. When he applied for loans from banks, they turned him down. They saw the occupancy rates as proof of imminent failure. Desperate, he began searching for loans from private sources. It had taken almost a year, but he found help. And, therein lay the problem. His helpmates were the Japanese Building Society. The Yakuza. As long as he could make the payments at their exorbitant interest rates, they left him alone. But the economy kept sinking, oil prices soaring above six dollars a gallon caused his occupancy rate to drop daily as oil prices increased. When he lowered the room rates, nothing happened to the occupancy rates. The rise in fuel cost meant that the prices of everything increased continuously, from food for guests to salaries necessary to attract hotel maids. Fewer people could afford to fly to Hawaii for even a brief stay in his cheaper rooms. Now, in trough season for Hawaii, only a quarter of the rooms were rented. It would be two months before the start of the next winter peak. He was near bankruptcy and feared he wouldn’t last until the winter.

  Morikono thought about suicide. Almost constantly.

  He expected to miss his second repayment in a row, and the Yakuza would come to collect its pound of flesh. Literally. He held his head with clenched hands. He couldn’t concentrate, and found the gorgeous view outside unsettling in its contrast.

  The phone rang. Morikono jumped, then took a deep breath and tentatively picked it up, expecting the worst. Omasu Maru, the loan officer—enforcer—from Yakuza asked, “How long do you expect patience from us, Morikono-san?”

  At the sound of that voice, oily and rough, toned down to just above a whisper, Morikono gulped. “I’m still having low occupancy rates and no cash. If I don’t pay for food for the restaurant or for help to clean the rooms, the hotel will have to close.”

  “Such a pity. Your problem, not ours. If you can’t pay the minimums on our loans, we’ll want immediate repayment of the entire amount. Under the terms of the loan, we’ll assume ownership of the hotel.”

  Morikono felt the spreading panic in his stomach. “But isn’t there some other way I can show good faith?”

  “I’ll talk with my boss. But you better pack your bags.”

  * * *

  During the intense heat of the afternoon, while he sipped coffee, Achmed Houmaz watched dust devils from inside his air-conditioned office at the Ministry. He studied the links from Swiftshadow Consulting Group. Then, he Googled Sashakovich’s name. What astounded him most was that all the intel was dated within the last four months. Sixteen pages of links.

  He read about her career at the agency, her current financial status, and her hobbies. She’d achieved celebrity status since the Afghanistan operation two months ago made the headlines at Al Jazeera. And, he found a link there to a news article concerning Lee Ainley’s arrest just over a month ago. He read the article on Al Jazeera and concluded she let him take the blame for all the murders she’d committed.

  She must be evil. She would be difficult for him to kill. He had no experience and this would be dangerous work. He’d need help.

  Houmaz considered rescinding his pledge to avenge the deaths of his father and brothers. After all, his brothers had been vile and there was no earthly excuse for him to consider their acts worthy of revenge. But his father was another story. His father had been a good man, and Sashakovich deserved to die for causing his death. On the other hand, he realized that murdering his brothers was the only option she’d had for remaining alive.

  The sky darkened while he sat thinking. Then, he decided: better that she should have died and his father had lived.

  But, he didn’t know how to exact revenge. He’d done project planning for the oil Ministry and thought that it might help to see this as a project. First he looked for tools.

  The first effective one he found was www.crypome.org. Using this he was able to follow Sashakovich’s actions since being fired from the agency. Although there was no proof, one of the sources he found told him that her net worth had somehow swiftly grown to over two billion dollars. He was sure she stole that money from his brothers. In a pique of anger, he threw the coffee mug against the wall of his office.

  Then, he had a flash of brilliance. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of Khali Al-Jambar, the reporter for Al Jazeera who had written the editorial story that Achmed’s father had read, causing his fatal heart attack.

  He tried to stay relaxed as he spoke. “Salaam, Khali, my name is Achmed Houmaz. A few weeks ago you wrote an article on Al Jazeera’s website about the murders of my brothers. I thought that you might be interested in who had actually done the murders. I know their names.”

  Al-Jambar replied, “You are Director Houmaz?”

  Ignoring the man’s disbelief, Achmed said, “Yes, of course I am. Are you interested in this information? Will you report what I tell you?”

  “Uh, yes, Director, I am interested. If you give me their names, I will do the research to ensure that what you tell me is, ah, is true.” His voice trailed off with the last few words, as if he feared telling Achmed Houmaz that he’d require a second source as confirmation.

  Achmed frowned. Of course. Investigative reporters always needed another source. He sensed Al-Jambar was interested, and would print the story. He said, “I found the names of the murderers in a notebook that my brother Pesi hid before the compound was attacked.”

  He continued talking to Al-Jambar for several minutes.

  Al-Jambar waited for Houmaz to finish and then asked, “Director Houmaz, how did you come by this information?”

  “One of the security guards at my family compound found the notebook. Now you know everything I know. You are a reporter. Do what reporters do. If you decide to use this in print, you may also use my name as your source.”

  Al-Jambar was silent for almost a minute. “Thank you, sir.” He ended the conversation. Achmed wondered if the reporter suspected there were too many loose ends for him to write anything. Did he think the security guard been the real author? Could he find someone who could verify his story for Al-Jambar?

  * * *

  Days passed and the reporter hadn’t even called back. No story was posted on Al Jazeera. He paced his off
ice, frowned, and sat behind his desk.

  Once again, Achmed Houmaz studied the website for Swiftshadow Consulting Group. Although he’d visited the website often, he decided to take a longer, deeper look. First he researched all of the board members, and then read until the complete picture of what had happened emerged for him. She was defending herself, and in doing so she had assembled a mercenary force large enough to kill over seven hundred people.

  In his research, he stumbled on a link from Google that led him to her bet on www.GrayNet.com. He found the bet was worded “CEO’s of drug companies will live if their companies don’t develop cures for chronic and deadly diseases and make the cures affordable to everyone.” She was placing a bounty of a million dollars to support the bet. And with the wording she’d phrased, people betting against her could win her money—both the bet itself and the bounty she offered—by killing the CEOs.

  His first thought was that, indeed, this woman was an accomplished killer. But he appreciated the efficacy of her bet. She could scare the CEOs into doing her bidding without having to personally engage in any death-dealing herself. He thought about just how smart a move that had been. After considering what she’d done to his brothers, he marveled at the concept of the bet itself.

  He found a website that tracked the movements of celebrities, athletes, politicians, and corporate executives. There were over two hundred thousand people on whom the site maintained records. He used the site, called www.gawkerstalker.com. He began to follow her electronically, obsessively, many times each day. He wondered if there was some way he could accomplish his vengeance without linking himself to her demise. But he’d never used violence as a weapon before.

  Houmaz thought about hiring a contract killer. He researched this and found that although they didn’t advertise, there were ways to find them. He used the Saudi secret police to point him to several and called one, a Japanese-American assassin. The man was almost impossible to find and didn’t respond to emails Houmaz posted on the hit man’s hidden website. Achmed was ready to give up when his phone rang.

  “Why are you sending me emails?” The voice was deep and twanged with an Asian accent.

  Houmaz gulped. “Are you the assassin?”

  “Why are you contacting me?”

  Houmaz gulped. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course I do. Once more, why are you sending me emails?”

  “I want you do my bidding. I want two people killed. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “I’m not in that business anymore. Don’t contact me again or I just might go back into business and kill you. Good luck.” There was an abrupt click on the other end of the line.

  Houmaz hung up and found he’d been perspiring in his air-conditioned office. His brows furrowed. There would have to be some other way.

  He felt increasingly compelled to follow Sashakovich’s movements, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about her. Except for despising her.

  * * *

  Days had now passed. Achmed sat behind his desk, scratching his head. There had to be a way. He wondered just how much power he really wielded, given his entire government lived off the taxes on oil revenue, and he was its manager. Maybe he could bend the Saudi Prime Minister, Ibrahim Fahd. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to his task, picked the phone and dialed the man. “It’s Houmaz. I have a favor to request.”

  “How can I be of service, Director Houmaz?”

  “Remember the words carved into the bodies of my brothers?”

  He waited while the silence at the other end of the phone line went on and on. “Uh, yes. But none of the sixteen secret police forces in the United States have admitted their complicity in the deaths of your brothers. And they dismissed the lone individual they did arrest, a man named Lee Ainsley. Somehow they proved his innocence.”

  “It wasn’t Ainsley. It was Cassandra Sashakovich, his girlfriend. Can we extradite her to our country? I want her confession, even if you have to torture her to get it. If she confesses, I want her beheaded in Chop Chop Square.”

  Houmaz could hear the man’s robes rustling at the other end of the line, could feel the man’s discomfort. “Minister Houmaz, the Americans are our friends. They sell us weapons. If we call for her extradition, it will certainly cause relations between us to chill. Do you have proof of these allegations?”

  Achmed’s jaw fell open. No, he didn’t have proof. The notebook showed there might be motivation for her actions. But it wasn’t even close to proof. “If we extradite her, we can force her confession. You’ll get your proof.” His voice was getting louder, almost a scream.

  “We’ll need proof first, in order to extradite her. If you can find any, I will consider doing as you wish. But until you have evidence we can share with the American ambassador, my hands are tied. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Houmaz slammed the phone into its cradle. It missed and flew onto the floor. He managed to keep from emitting the scream sealed in his throat.

  CHAPTER 10

  October 4, 3:29 p.m.

  Building Society headquarters,

  Marunouchi Building,

  Tokyo Station, Tokyo, Japan

  Omasu Maru checked his email. Sitting in his spacious office on the thirty-fourth floor of the Marunouchi Building at Tokyo Station, he drew his thin lips back over yellowed teeth. How to extract payment mixed with a healthy dose of vengeance and still make it look like leniency? The very idea that Sanji Morikono had thought he could get away with not repaying the Japanese Building Society for a half-billion-dollar loan made Maru’s jaw go rigid, feeling like a fool. He’d make the idiot into an example for others. His left hand scratched at the tattoo of a dragon on his right arm.

  He sat back into the overstuffed leather chair and tensed the muscles in both arms. Patience, it might take a while for him to think of something suitable.

  At the end of his official workday, he took a brief break from reviewing the “Problem Loans and Overdue Payments” report. He surfed the Internet, scanning gambling websites owned and run by Yakuza branches.

  One of the sites had a link to another site that claimed “Affect reality: make your bet and the outcomes you bet on actually happen.” Maru had never heard anything so ridiculous. He clicked the link to www.GrayNet.com. At first he just examined the web page, doubting what he saw. But within a few seconds, his jaw dropped in surprise. My god, he thought. Who thought of this? They should be tortured! This puts our private businesses under a searchlight. But as he examined the bets, his thoughts about Internet betting began to change in subtle ways.

  People placed bets about other people dying, politicians being defeated for reelection, and other things that had outcomes a person might indeed affect. Especially if that person was an assassin. He sat spellbound for several minutes, digesting the mechanics of a negative bet. He began to understand that if you bet a substantial amount of money against what you wanted to happen, the people wanting to win the money would bet that it could happen, and soon it became likely that at least one of them would make it happen. The original bet became, in essence, a hit man’s fee. He saw the web page called “Contracts for Death,” and it all snapped into focus for him. This is probably why so many assassins are busy and my hit contracts get backlogged.

  He was struck with a thought: his financial Laundromat was the construction business, with its huge cash flows. He could try this new method of dealing death. Instead of professional hitters, he could post bets enrolling low-cost amateurs to eliminate the competition and get work for his builders. Then, another idea formed, a test case of sorts. He outlined its details and picked up the telephone.

  He called OPEC to determine the name of the director. Over the last year, he’d requested bidding permits for the Japanese Building Society and submitted proposals on construction projects in Saudi Arabia. His spies there told him that so far, every bid they made was rejected, even when they had the low bid. But there was no one available at this hour to give him the name of the
man who was responsible.

  He left his office for dinner and thought about refining his new plan.

  And before dawn he was back at his desk. This time someone answered his call. When he asked, he was told, “The OPEC director isn’t available. He’s just returned from a leave. He was at home mourning the murders of his brothers and father.”

  Maru scratched his chin. In perfect Arabic, he asked, “Please tell me your director’s name.” When he heard the reply, he terminated the call.

  Maru poured a cup of green tea and sat at his desk in front of the computer. He googled “Achmed Houmaz” and typed notes into a document file in preparation for contacting the man. He entered information about the Arab and OPEC’s building plans. Maru knew now his target was the sole surviving member of the Houmaz clan.

  He picked up the receiver and dialed. “Please connect me with Achmed Houmaz,” he said. “Tell him it’s Omasu Maru of the Japanese Building Society.” He waited, studying his notes, his face immobile.

  * * *

  “Director Houmaz here.” Achmed removed a folder labeled “Omasu Maru” from his desk. He scanned the pages. “Omasu Maru. We met almost two years ago in New York. How can I help you?”

  “I think I may be able to help you, and perhaps then you might return the favor.”

  “How? I’m very busy. I don’t have time for a sales call. Maybe—”

  “One of my associates told me that your brothers were murdered. Do you know what the Japanese Building Society is?

  “Yes, of course. Yakuza.”

  “We could help you avenge the murders of your brothers.”