by Niv Kaplan
"Not the way we heard it Mr. Campour," Yossi said eyeing Kumar carefully, "according to Glass, you do all the dirty work to secure this deal.”
The statement hung in the air a long moment. Glass's change of allegiance was now out in the open and everyone anxiously watched for a reaction. His expression changed rapidly from taut to menacing.
"Did he also tell you how he sold out his daughter," Kumar said, eyes darting from Yossi to Lisa, mouth contorted in a cruel half smile.
"You left him no choice, now did you, you bastard," Yossi said, clutching Lisa's shoulder, subduing her response.
"Oh, he certainly had a choice, the dumbass, but we had him figured right.”
"That's certainly changed now," Marla interjected. "You apparently hadn't had him totally figured out.”
"I guess we never figured on this one squeezing his balls," Kumar muttered, gesturing toward Lisa.
"I guess you never did," Lisa said throwing him a hateful stare. Kumar chuckled and leaned back in his chair. Then, he was suddenly up and standing. Fists clenched, eyes flaring, he leapt toward Lisa ready to strike.
"You bitch!" he hissed, losing all decorum as he lashed out, clawing with his hands.
His assault was curtailed by Yossi who swiftly stepped in front of Lisa, deflecting the charge with a solid blow to the face, knocking Kumar to the ground. Marla and the rest of the crew, piling in through the door, were on him in a matter of seconds.
Handcuffed, his nose bleeding, Kumar was seated back in his chair as everyone filed out, leaving him alone with the FBI agent and ex-Shabac agent to hash out the particulars.
CHAPTER 47
Wes Bradley had a reputation for bending under pressure, causing him to sometimes lose judicious control and grind out anyone who happened to be in his way, regardless of rank.
Langone had seen it on a few occasions when all seemed dark and hopeless, but never had he seen him this livid, storming his office, uninvited, shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs, banging his fist on the white mahogany desk to no end.
"We can probably both look for a job," he exclaimed, ramming his fist on the desk incessantly. "I looked like a damn idiot in front of my boss, letting that Brit walk in and threaten us. How could you let this happen?"
"Relax, Wes, he's got to be bluffing.”
"Bluffing? He isn't bluffing. Why would he be bluffing?"
"Bigger piece of the action, maybe?"
Bradley exhaled loudly. "Now you listen to me, Edgar, and you listen good! Nobody - and I mean nobody - walks into Matlock's office claiming something this big without proper clout. This Vitcon guy meant business. He wasn't bluffing nor was he trying to impress anyone. He had his mind set and knew exactly what he was after.”
"Come on, Wes, we both had him checked and so did Stana. If there was any indication as to…"
"Screw that now!" Bradley exclaimed mercilessly. "The threat is on the table and I'm expected to provide real answers, real quick. Now tell me what you plan to do about it.”
Langone sighed. The threat was real. He was certain of that, only he did not want to acknowledge it to Bradley, hoping to buy some more time to thwart the crisis. As vulnerable a position as Matlock had been put in, they at least owned the technology and could still sell the product while he and his partners would lose everything.
Vitcon was trouble from the very beginning. He and Stana had discussed the matter following their meeting in London, agreeing that the circumstances were too coincidental, but greed and mounting losses had obstructed reason, causing them to act against their better judgment in allowing Vitcon access to the project, a condition he had stressed all along.
It made perfect sense at the time but they should have been alarmed when in addition, Vitcon requested a private meeting with Matlock. The prospect had looked so promising that he, Langone, had actually wanted Vitcon in with Matlock to encourage the surprising investor, but hindsight proved him wrong and now he had to clean up the mess.
He needed to locate that damned Kumar.
"You need to give me a day," he finally said, pressing the intercom for his secretary.
"Find Kumar," he instructed, hearing her come on line.
"Sure Ed," she answered and clicked off.
Bradley, still red faced and annoyed sat back on the white leather couch grunting. "You've got exactly one day, Edgar," he said, looking depleted, "Matlock cannot afford to lose this one. If you don't come through, we go elsewhere!"
"Now wait just one minute, Wes. You can't make that decision alone. We've matched every dollar you've invested and you're obligated to carry out these contracts.”
"Not if we encounter export restrictions which you were supposed to rescind. Plus we own the rights! You are in no position to tell me how to recoup my investment and if your route fails, we go another route.”
Now it was Langone's turn to bang his fist on the desk and turn red with rage. "Now you listen to me Bradley. Nobody is calling off the deal on account of this Vitcon guy," he exclaimed, waving a finger at the stuffy executive. "We've handled more serious hazards before and we'll handle this one as well. You don't come storming in here every time something goes wrong and threaten me with tearing up contracts. We've got just as much invested in this as you have, and we don't plan to give it up just because you got a little embarrassed.”
"This isn't just another hazard you can fix with money Langone," Bradley said, looking slightly unnerved. "Once those boys get a hold of you, that's it! You can kiss your money goodbye and pray they don't throw you in jail. Now, I'll go domestic if I have to but I can't sit here worrying about export regulations which you promised to fix.”
"Export regulations are not the problem, I assure you," Langone said in reconciliation, "we've had that taken care of long ago. This - this noise that's got you all upset will go away if we don't panic. If we let it get to us and cause us to go at each other's throats, then yes, we can kiss our money goodbye. But if we stick together we'll blow it off, trust me, we've been through worse with this project.”
The two executives stared at one another, each holding his ground in rigid stalemate, avoiding a host of imminent undercurrents aiming to surface.
Bradley got up to leave. Arranging his jacket and tie, he collected his overcoat from where he had irately pitched it, picked up his briefcase and stepped to the door.
"I'll be at the Marriot," he said half turning, his hand on the doorknob, coat slung over his arm.
"I'll find you, Wes.”
"You do that, Edgar, or we'll go another way," Bradley said grimly and with evident discomfort walked out the door.
-------
Russo had been following the boyfriend, making his way up the East Coast almost at leisure, on remote, weather beaten highways, stopping at odd times and in odd places for a gas refill, a latrine visit, an occasional bite to eat and a routine phone exchange.
By now he was extremely concerned with his team's effort. The sister had disappeared and there was a delay in releasing Lance and Sollet from the hospital. Sollet had managed one call into the relay shortly after the accident but Maloney, who had reached Los Angeles the following morning, was still unable to get close to the injured duo who had since been put in isolation and all efforts to clarify the reason had been cordially but vaguely refused by the medical team.
Russo had been calling the relay at almost every stop hoping for fresh news from his disabled crew but no new word had come since Maloney's last scheduled communication and he was beginning to weigh his options.
Watching the boyfriend fueling his car at a Gulf station near Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, after a hair-raising ride on a slippery country road through fog, hail, and an occasional snow flurry, he wondered whether he should call for reinforcements and attend to releasing his men, or abandon the boyfriend, who seemed to be heading nowhere, and concentrate on finding the sister or maybe reassess their entire approach and start anew with the likes of a Chester Caldwell or someone with comparable traits.<
br />
Russo had always prided himself on being loyal to his subordinates. Getting them out of a jam was high on his list of priorities, but he tended to avoid asking for reinforcements, hesitant about exhibiting his weakness and knowing how thinly spread everyone was over numerous projects now in progress. Never, in the two years he had been in charge of the contract, had he exceeded the quota of men assigned to him and more often than not, he had been the one sending people to reinforce others in need.
The more he thought about his alternatives, the more he realized he was stuck with chasing the boyfriend and counting on Maloney to come through for the others. The sister had managed to shake them off and Russo, whose only function so far was to watch and report, knew he had to stick with what he had and look for guidance from the people who were paying the bills.
There was, of course, another option. He could confront the subject, force him to talk. But for that he needed permission and the contact had been uncharacteristically absent. Russo was not about to overstep his instructions and jeopardize a contract he and his superiors all considered good money.
The boyfriend had by now parked his car next to the small diner adjacent to the gas station and was scrambling inside amidst a downpour of rain. Russo remained in his car long enough to guard against another evasion maneuver then, keeping the rental car in sight, he drove by the diner to the far side of the gas station to a phone booth and quickly entered it, leaving his engine running and his headlights on.
"Russo, is that you?" He heard the relay's voice, one of four girls manning the post around the clock, sounding urgent and distressed.
"It's me. What's wrong?"
"Get out now!" he heard her say and immediately began to inspect his periphery. "The word from Maloney is that it's the Feds holding Lance and the Frenchman and that we've been jeopardized by the contact. It's abort all the way. Get your ass out of there and do it quick.”
As he thoughtfully cradled the receiver, he noticed the boyfriend walk out of the diner flanked by two men who sprang in his direction, following the boyfriend's lead. The two were fast, running full tilt on the muddy ground across the small parking lot. Avoiding a car pulling in and an outstretched pump line, they raced toward him covering the distance in no time. But they came up short as Russo was able jump in his car and flee the gas station, spraying mud in all directions. The two stopped short of flinging their bodies at his car, turned and ran the other way.
Russo pulled onto the main road, flooring the accelerator as he felt the wheels grip dryer land. The narrow, two-lane road widened into four lanes after several miles, Russo's vehicle shooting through at full throttle spraying water all around, wipers laboring away in the rain swept air. Dodging cars right and left he flew by a quiet little neighborhood, passing its only traffic light on red.
Yet there they were, he marveled, in his rear view mirror, a gray sedan with a flashing blue light, gaining ground.
Russo kept going straight on the four lane highway welcoming a sudden foggy stretch where he veered right onto a side street and gunned the car through a maze of snow mounds and glassy vegetation. A sharp turn in the road sent him reeling off balance through the stacked white powder, off the embankment and into a gully, snow cushioning the blow. The engine choked instantly and in the ensuing stillness, Russo could hear his own heart beating wildly. Breathless but otherwise unscathed, he tried the door. Finding it stuck, he went for the passenger door and managed to slip out through a crack. Battling waist high snow, he scrambled out of the gully and, moving away from the road, took refuge in the icy thicket.
The gray car appeared moments later almost driving past the scene. It stopped a few yards beyond and reversed to where Russo's car had swerved off the road. The two agents stepped out of their car and stood a moment evaluating what they were seeing before drawing their guns and carefully sliding down the gully.
Russo did not wait around to watch them discover his fresh tracks.
-------
Returning to the hotel at seven the following night, precisely twenty-four hours after he was snatched by Federal agents, Kumar dropped exhausted in his bath, taking great care in washing remnants of clotted blood from a painfully sensitive nose.
Welcoming the privacy but utterly disgusted with the way things had evolved, he tried to put things in perspective.
To say he was in trouble was a ghastly understatement. Caught totally unawares, he now had a few decisions to make, none of which could turn back the clock. The lines had been drawn for him and now he had to decide which ones to cross. His livelihood, his reputation, his duty to the project, to his partners, and to those he employed, all took secondary consequence to basic survival which meant he had to cross them all. He had little choice in the matter now that he had been admonished. The wolves were out there, waiting, watching his every move, ready to strike at the slightest provocation and he could not afford to play it fair. Sacrifices had to be made and at least one consideration was acutely clear: the girl was now his only bargaining chip and she had to be kept alive.
Astonished by the simplicity and swiftness of the trap that had been set for him and the amount of information gathered against the campaign, reflecting on his own complacency and poor management, he still kept up a feeble hope that his adversaries were still speculating rather than acting upon solid proof.
To himself he had to admit they were right on track but he still felt there were a few issues he needed to clarify before taking the next step.
Crawling out of the tub, he slipped into his bathrobe and went to the phone to listen for messages. Langone's secretary had called every hour since eleven that morning and finally Langone himself, sounding tired and irritated, left a message at six.
He waited another hour, dozing, scenes from his capture whirling in his mind, then he called Langone at home.
"We did everything short of coming over," the financier complained loudly, adding insult to injury. "Where the hell have you been?"
"I went shopping, Edgar. What difference does it make? I don't owe you hourly reports of my whereabouts.”
"Well maybe you should consider it," Langone boomed, "it would've made a difference today."
He updated Kumar in short blunt sentences on the developments of the last 24 hours.
His account of the meeting with Bradley removed any doubt the Feds were on the ball, adding merit to their contentions. The project had certainly been infiltrated from all directions. Not only had they caught him but had managed to cleverly frighten Matlock into reconsidering their allegiance. Vitcon was no doubt another set up.
Only partially listening to Langone now, he began to consider his next move.
-------
The surveillance scheme had been functioning well. Eitan had been there for six days. The first two he spent alternating with Sarah, spending the next two by himself, before being joined by the two FBI agents: Agent Sheridan, a broad-shouldered, stout man of Irish descent, with clear blue eyes and a large thick mustache, who restlessly chewed on a wad of tobacco, constantly spitting it everywhere; and Agent Moorehouse, a redhead with freckles whose stiff dress code and precise movements contrasted the good natured, easygoing personality of her partner Sheridan and his odd sense of humor. Under ordinary circumstances, the FBI would not have allowed a civilian, and a foreigner to boot, to take part in an operational stakeout, but Sarah had put it as a condition to Agent Wilkins, and Eitan received approval to remain.
To keep themselves alert they ate mostly junk food and drank coffee from a large thermos they all shared. To keep from being conspicuous, they used several observation spots which provided an adequate view of the house. The parking lot by the fish restaurant was by far the best spot but hanging around it for long periods of time was way too obvious and suspicious to anyone even remotely concerned, so they alternated amongst three different locations using two different cars. Two other locations were an obscure little street that overlooked the house from the opposite side of the alley and a tiny
shopping area by the nearest intersection south of the house toward the town. It had a clear angle but was only effective with the use of binoculars.
The method by which they should free the hostage was a point of contention. Agent Sheridan was of the opinion that an immediate, carefully planned assault of the house by an elite force could free the girl with minor casualties. Moorehouse thought it preferable to forewarn the kidnappers of the Bureau's presence and lay out the groundwork for an acceptable deal. Eitan, whose number one priority was Karen’s safety, was wary of the consequences of an all-out assault but he also knew from experience, having been trained in anti- terrorist warfare, that negotiations always preceded an assault. He was of the opinion that they should wait and hope the kidnappers try and move the hostage as they had done several times in the past. Out in the open, on the road, they would be much more vulnerable than anywhere else.
What none of them knew was that the wheels to influence a deal for Karen's release had already been put in motion with a slight deviation from common practices where the deal was being consummated by applying pressure in key spots away from the place of seizure, with one goal in mind: coercing the terrorists to deem Karen's life a crucial asset.
He looked at his watch then gazed at the slumping Sheridan in the back seat. A surprisingly nice day was in the making as the first rays of sun illuminated the awakening Sound, bouncing tiny sparks of light off the ivory, snow covered shore. Tired, but feeling uplifted by the promising weather he glanced around one last time before he was to wake Sheridan, when a yellow taxi appeared from the direction of the town. Advancing somewhat hesitantly, it abruptly turned into the alley and halted in front of the house.
Suddenly alert, Eitan watched a slender man with a dark complexion wrapped in a long gray overcoat emerge from the cab and head toward the house.
CHAPTER 48
The door swung open before he even had a chance to knock, a gloved hand impatiently motioning for him to step in. As he did, a man in a leather jacket over a white turtleneck shirt appeared from behind the door, angrily throwing it shut.