Disaster Inc

by Caimh McDonnell

“Tony?”

  “Well,” said Tony, “we only just got this from our guy at the NSA, and it is on deep background right now, but he was commonly known as Addy Wilson.”

  Douglas felt his whole body relax, like the electric current that had been going through it since last night’s newsflash had finally been turned off.

  “Although,” continued Tony, “that wasn’t his legal name. It’s funny – kinda sounds like a character from Star Wars. His name was Adaal Ackbar.”

  Douglas closed his eyes and reached his hand across the desk. Tony took the piece of paper and opened it. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

  “I really wish I was.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  You had to know what to look for.

  Bunny was in the queue at a taco truck with a lot of people in suits. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, and he guessed that they were trying to beat the rush so they could get back to their desks faster. He himself was in a windbreaker with an NYPD baseball cap and cheap sunglasses, all of which he’d picked up in the kind of tourist shop that never saw the same customer twice. Everyone around him was talking, either on their phone or to the person next to them. Half a block west was the building on Park Avenue that housed the offices of Lanark Lane Investments.

  Bunny and Amy had been staying at Diller’s place since Monday night, although Bunny hadn’t been there much. He’d spent most of the previous day and all of that morning doing surveillance on Matt Clarke. Once the news of the bombing had broken, he’d tried to ring Agent Dove, reasoning that whomever she represented might be considerably more interested in a major terrorism incident than a murder with a rather lurid set of headlines attached. Regardless, the phone had been dead. He really had been cut adrift. He’d spent most of Monday night trying to come up with a plan while staring at Diller’s ceiling, which was also covered, rather alarmingly, with the smiling faces of members of the animal kingdom. He’d had his fill of running and hiding. Somehow, they needed to take the initiative back. He had no idea how to do that, but he figured he needed to start at the source – namely one Matt Clarke, he of the big mouth and the bottom in need of a spanking. He had indeed been a very naughty boy and Bunny was inclined to give him the kind of spanking that’d fulfil his needs in that area for the rest of this life and possibly the next one.

  So, on Tuesday morning, Bunny had been up with the lark, staking out the building that Matt Clarke and his amigos lived in. Not that Bunny had been dumb enough to approach it directly. From a distance, he’d scoped out the two guys in the SUV and the other fella in the BMW. Between them, they had all exits and entrances to the building completely covered. He’d watched as Bradley and Clarke had been hurried into a minivan by the big black fella who’d handed Bunny his arse a few days beforehand. They’d driven away in convoy. Bunny reckoned that the only people under closer personal protection had either won an election or just taken over a small Third World country.

  He’d not attempted to follow them, instead guessing that they were heading for their offices. He’d been right. Once Bunny reached the building on Park Avenue, he spent the next few hours scoping around it, seeing the same level of protection. The two guys in the SUV were parked in front of a fire hydrant on the far side of the street; they’d flashed some form of ID when a traffic cop had shown an interest. The guy in the BMW was down one of the side streets.

  He’d then seen Clarke and Bradley being accompanied back home to West 88th Street. He’d hung around long enough to see the shifts change. The security around their apartment was even tighter. The logic was sound: the office was safer due to its own security and the sheer volume of people. Bunny’s plan, as much as he’d had one, had been to try and reach Clarke at home. He could go in, smash the gobshite over the head and then, well, he didn’t have much after that. Even if he could get hold of the lad and get him out of there, what would that get him? Bunny wasn’t exactly Snow White, but he drew the line at torture. The options were limited. Very limited.

  He’d reached the front of the queue for the taco truck.

  “What can I get you?”

  “What’s good?” asked Bunny, never making eye contact with the guy in the truck above him. A second SUV had just pulled up and the bearded black guy had stepped out.

  “Everything is good, ese. We don’t sell it if it ain’t.” The guy leaned forward and pointed at the menu on the side of the truck. “Now, what you want, bro?”

  “Right. Grand. I’ll have that.” Bunny jabbed a finger at the menu without looking at it.

  “Cool, one lengua taco platter coming up. Five bucks.”

  “Lovely.” Bunny reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a note. The black guy had entered the building.

  Bunny held the note out and felt it slip from his fingers.

  “Dude.”

  He glanced up to see the Styrofoam tray being held out, and the pissed-off expression behind it.

  “Sorry. Miles away. Thanks very much.”

  Bunny took the tray and stepped to the side. A woman had just got up from the bench behind him, so he slid in and took her place. Just a tourist, eating his lunch. As he picked up his taco, the black guy re-emerged, flanked by Matt Clarke. As they walked to the vehicle, Bunny noticed the guy’s hand was on Clarke’s elbow, guiding him forward. Clarke jerked his arm, but the man maintained his grip. With his free hand, the black guy opened the rear door of the black SUV and firmly guided Clarke inside before slamming the door. Then he put his hand on the rear door handle, double-checking it was locked.

  There it was. To see it, you had to know what to look for. Clarke wasn’t being protected. He was being held prisoner.

  As the SUV pulled out and joined the flow of traffic, the other SUV and the BMW following behind, Bunny bit into his taco. It was nice, if a bit chewy.

  He glanced over at the menu. It was cow tongue, apparently.

  He took another bite.

  Not bad.

  It’d go well with a nice cup of tea.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Water. Whiskey. Pint of stout.

  Bunny put the three drinks down on the table and sat back.

  They were back in the Porterhouse Lodge because they had to meet somewhere and they all knew where it was. Jackie the barman had greeted Bunny warmly, and then when the other two had walked in, he’d roared a genial laugh and said, “Holy shit, they’re putting the band back together.”

  Now they were sitting in the back room. The place was at the tail end of a steady lunch business of sandwiches and such, but on a bright and sunny March day, the dark back room was theirs alone.

  Amy was back at Diller’s, it being way too risky for her to be out in public. She had Mrs James, Diller’s upstairs neighbour, for company. Mrs James was convinced that Amy was Diller’s girlfriend. Initially, Bunny had been wary of anyone seeing Amy, but he’d quickly understood why Diller had been unconcerned. The sweet old lady was “off with the fairies”, so to speak. She didn’t know the year, much less who was or wasn’t America’s most wanted.

  Bunny glanced at the muted TV up in the corner. Whether it could be considered a positive development or not, Amy wasn’t the main story on the news anymore. The attack on Millennium Faction Data was unsurprisingly dominating. It had been weird, watching as Adaal Ackbar went from innocent victim to lunatic jihadi to evil genius as the “truth” of the attack had come more into focus over the last two days. Shares in several affected companies had been suspended for the day yesterday, but the stock exchange had been back to business as usual that morning, and apparently it had been bloody. Billions were being wiped off the valuations of companies. Fortunes would be lost and, Bunny guessed, at least one made. He didn’t pretend to understand what was happening, but he knew enough. Matt Clarke and his boys at Lanark Lane Investments had known about the attack beforehand and some very bad people were clearly in cahoots with them. The whole thing just came down to good old-fashioned greed.

  Amy’s newsman contact was us
eful to a point, but it didn’t get them anywhere near a solution. The note she had given him – “Millennium Falcon – Admiral Ackbar – or something like that” – wasn’t exactly a smoking gun. No news organisation was going to go on air with what amounted to an eavesdropped coincidence. Randall had said he had people looking into Lanark Lane, but Bunny guessed it’d be way too little, way too late. Whoever was behind this, they weren’t afraid of dropping bodies, and they’d undoubtedly clean up their loose ends on the way out the door. All of that was why Matt Clarke was somewhere between protectee and prisoner. Getting to him and finding some way of showing the truth to the world was the closest thing Bunny had to a plan, but right then, it didn’t feel like very much of one.

  Smithy raised his whiskey glass in toast and then tossed it back in one fluid motion. Diller sipped on the straw in his water.

  “So,” said Smithy, “what can we do for you, Bunny?”

  “Well. ’Tis a bit of an ask, but basically, I need to get into a building up on Park Avenue.”

  “OK,” said Diller.

  “Woah, hang on a sec,” said Smithy. “When you say ‘get in’ – I’m not a burglar and, larcenous tendencies aside, neither is Diller. I’d like to help, but I’m not doing B & E at an uptown address.”

  “No, no,” said Bunny, “nothing like that. I just need a distraction. Some way of getting me in to talk to someone without being spotted. I thought maybe you could do one of your situation things.”

  “Situational acting event,” said Smithy.

  “That’s the one.”

  “OK,” said Smithy, “well, that we can probably do. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s distracting people. What’s the address?”

  Bunny slid across a piece of paper. “Here, I wrote it down.”

  Smithy took out his smartphone and started tapping away.

  “We’ll figure out something,” said Diller. “Our recreation of the Ghostbusters scene in the New York Public Library is still talked about today. We’re the reason it is now their official policy to turn away people dressed as ghosts.”

  “Is that right?” said Bunny. “Just explain this to me again. Yous recreate scenes from famous films?”

  Diller nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. It’s acting with a punk aesthetic. That’s what Smithy calls it.”

  Smithy nodded. “That’s the idea.”

  “Right,” said Bunny, sounding a tad sceptical.

  “Our ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ from When Harry Met Sally is really popular,” said Diller. “Y’know, the one where Meg Ryan does the—”

  “Everyone remembers that scene,” said Bunny. “’Tis an all-time classic.”

  “Oh yeah,” agreed Diller. “People love it. We got paid to do it at six different restaurants on Valentine’s Day.”

  “So this is a business?”

  “Yes,” said Diller.

  “No,” said Smithy. Then he looked at Diller. “Well, it didn’t used to be, but, well, the thing about actors is that we’re all broke, so a few bucks does come in handy. It also paid a couple of fines.”

  “Yeah,” said Smithy. “Recreating scenes from Dog Day Afternoon wasn’t our finest idea. Some cops showed up who hadn’t seen the movie. We all spent a night in the cells.”

  Diller nodded. “The thing about recreating an armed siege is that it can quickly become an actual armed siege.”

  “Yeah,” said Smithy. “We really…”

  Smithy stared transfixed at his smartphone for a moment and then shut his eyes.

  “Smithy?” said Bunny. “Ye just stopped talking there.”

  Diller shushed him. “He’s thinking. This is his process.”

  Bunny stayed quiet but looked back and forth between the two of them: Smithy, head down, eyes closed, with an almost pained expression; Diller, wide-eyed with his tongue hanging out, giving him the air of an excited puppy. In the back of Bunny’s mind, he was starting to worry this was a terrible idea. Unfortunately, it was also his only idea.

  “I’ve got it,” said Smithy.

  “He’s got it,” said Diller.

  Smithy opened his eyes and looked at them both. “Lethal Weapon 2.”

  “Oh my God,” said Diller. “The exploding toilet scene?”

  “No, not the… Why would we do the exploding toilet scene?”

  Diller slapped the table. “Guy getting decapitated with the surfboard.”

  “No.”

  “Mel Gibson shooting the aquarium.”

  “No,” said an increasingly exasperated Smithy. “And I would never hurt fish.”

  “Guy jumping off the building and Mel goes, ‘Do you really wanna jump? OK then—”

  “No,” interrupted Smithy, sounding exasperated. “Stop guessing!” He then saw Diller’s hurt expression and felt instantly bad. “I mean… no, Dill, none of them. And the jumping off the building scene is in the first film anyway.” Smithy turned to Bunny. “You want a distraction, I can do you one hell of a distraction. When do you need this?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Smithy nodded. “OK. First thing tomorrow good enough?”

  “I guess it’ll have to be.”

  “OK,” said Smithy. “I need to go take a look at this place. Diller, you need to call the crew and get hold of some cardboard and markers.”

  Bunny pulled out his wallet and handed Diller a couple of bills. He now had twenty bucks left.

  With that, Smithy hopped off his stool and started pacing. “Do these people know what you look like?”

  Bunny nodded. “Well, at least one of them. The big black lad who I had a bit of a tussle with.”

  “OK,” said Smithy. “We’re going to have to figure out how we can get you in there without getting seen.” Smithy nodded to himself and kept pacing back and forth. “OK. This is going to be challenging but doable.”

  Bunny picked up his untouched pint of Guinness. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Darryl Habana smiled to hide the wince that had reflexively appeared on his face when the elevator doors opened. In his defence, he had no doubt that Jessica Wallsop almost certainly did the same when she saw him. Darryl worked on the top floor, for the South African consulate; Jessica worked three floors down for an insurance company. They’d met at the previous December’s building Christmas party. That was one of the big things Darryl had noticed when he’d moved to New York from South Africa: the sheer amount of Christmas parties. The consulate had theirs, and the other consulates had theirs, each trying to outdo each other, which meant that December was one long, cheaply acquired hangover. Then the building had one too. Darryl had gone as one of the consulate’s representatives, as it paid to be friendly. Besides, it clashed with the night of the Swiss consulate’s bash, and ever since a regrettable tackle against the Swiss trade attaché during the inter-consulate five-a-side soccer tournament, he had been persona non grata at their bashes. Darryl regretted it, not least because their wine list was the stuff of legend.

  Speaking of regrettable incidents, Jessica Wallsop gave Darryl a tight smile and then turned to face the doors, punching the button for the ground floor with more force than necessary, as if trying to convey to the elevator her keenness for the trip down to be over as quickly as possible.

  It would be hard to put their “coming together” at the Christmas party in overly romantic terms. Their eyes had not met across a crowded room. He had been hitting on her friend and Jessica had still been there when the friend had left with some gym-toned tool from the risk-management firm on the third floor. They didn’t have a great deal in common other than two things – they were both drunk and horny. It was not a love story for the ages.

  At the party, Jessica had seemed, if anything, a bit shy and mousy. Once they had sneaked upstairs to the consulate, on the pretence of slipping out to their much-prized balcony garden for a sneaky joint, things had changed. A beast had been unleashed. They had never made it to the balc
ony. Darryl had brought her into the boss’s office because, well, who doesn’t want to screw on their boss’s desk? She had been eager virtually ripping his clothes off. It had also become apparent that Jessica was quite the talker when she got going, lying across the vast expanse of mahogany desk. Initially, Darryl had been in to it; a bit of filthy talk just added to the experience. Then it had taken a turn. As Jessica had become more and more excited, her dirty talk had taken on a racial element. At first, it had been frankly hot – this petite all-American white woman talking to the big black man. But her choice of language had gone south fast. Soon Darryl found himself appalled by the woman he was still having sex with. It was like his body and mind had split in two. Then, he’d glanced up to see the framed picture of Nelson Mandela on the wall. The eyes of the great man had looked down on him as if to say, “Darryl, is this how far we have come?” He had realised there and then that he couldn’t keep quiet. Unfortunately, his body was not entirely on board with the plan. This was how the stern talking-to about unacceptable language that he was delivering to a suddenly mortified woman from Vermont was interrupted by his orgasm. It sent extremely mixed messages. He still shuddered at the memory, and he still couldn’t look at sweet Papa Madiba without feeling shame.

  When the doors pinged open on the reception floor, Jessica bolted out as if shot from a cannon. Her left shoulder bounced off the opening door and then she all but leaped the security barriers as she beeped herself out. Her heels skittered across the marble floor of the reception area at as close to a run as someone could manage without actually running. It was “building on fire but not near me” speed.

  Darryl watched her go and then calmly put his pass down and beeped himself through the barriers. He’d seen Jessica meeting an Asian guy outside the office a couple of weeks ago; he did not want to think about what was going on there.

  He turned the corner to the reception desk. Marcia was on her throne, queen of all she surveyed, as ever. She was a grandma from Brooklyn, and took what she considered to be a “healthy interest” in the building’s to-ings and fro-ings. Most people considered this being a busybody. Darryl liked her though, possibly just because she reminded him of his auntie JuJu.