Headcount: v5
Page 20
I laughed. “You’re insane.” I looked at Patel and smiled and shook my head. “You don’t believe this, do you?”
Patel looked at his wife. “What’s going on, baby?”
Shalini didn’t respond. She was focused on me. She smiled and motioned towards Patel’s plate.
“Eat it,” she said.
I laughed again. “Come on. This is getting a bit too much. Let’s just all sit down and finish up before this wonderful food gets cold.”
Patel nodded. He gently put his arm around his wife. “Yes. Come, baby, why don’t you join us now.”
She pushed his arm away. “I want him to eat some of that. He eats three bites, and I will apologize and then make you all some tea.”
“This is insulting,” I said, and put on a stern expression to cover up my frustration for not having brought a knife with me. It had seemed too risky to carry one, but now I longed for its warm handle and cold blade. As I moved away from the table, I began to look around the room for a possible weapon. The situation was escalating, and the likelihood of Patel eating the poisoned food seemed to be dropping fast. My heart began to pound as I realized I would have to kill both of them.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Shalini wasn’t backing down, and now Patel himself was eyeing me with suspicion. I had to get better with controlling my facial expressions. Perhaps I’d take an acting class after this assignment. I shrugged and smiled, hoping to defuse the situation or at least buy some time.
“Okay, fine,” I said, and slowly moved towards the table.
I reached for the fork and gripped it hard and imagined myself flipping it around so I could stab with it. First Patel in the throat, making sure to pull the fork back out so the blood would flow free. Then I’d have to improvise with Shalini, since she’d in all likelihood attack me with whatever weapon was handy. Or perhaps she’d run out of the house. Or worse, try and call 911. No, maybe I do her first, and make the bet that Patel tries to stop me instead of running for the door or the phone.
“He’s not going to do it,” said Shalini. “Go bring a plastic container from the kitchen. We’ll get this stuff tested.”
Patel shook his head in disbelief and walked out of the room. Shalini stared at me, and I was surprised that she didn’t seem afraid in the least. That’s too bad, I thought. She should be afraid.
Then as if she could read my mind, her expression changed and she turned and made a dash for the cordless phone that sat on a chest-high shelf against the wall. I went after her, and lunged to grab her shoulder and spin her around. But, to my surprise, she turned before I could touch her.
It must have been as confusing for her as it was for me. There was no sound except for a dull thud and the whisper-like splash of the red sprinkles that spontaneously appeared on the white wall behind her. Her body whipped around and my eyes stared into hers. She looked puzzled for a second, and then she fell down hard, dragging the phone to the floor with her.
Patel came running in just as the second bullet slammed into Shalini’s body. He screamed, and then I was on him.
All my well-practiced moves didn’t count for shit right then. It was a street fight, and we clawed and wrenched at each other, each of us grappling for leverage. I took him down to the carpet and turned him so I could lock his head and snap his neck, but his short hair was saturated with coconut oil and I couldn’t get a grip. Patel was howling like a rabid beast, and I couldn’t tell if my punches were hurting him or not. Finally I managed to bury my right fist deep into his gut, and I heard his lungs empty as if they were balloons that had just been popped. He doubled over, and I went to the table and grabbed the fork.
“Not as professional as I would like. But it’ll have to do.” My vision locked in on the bulging vein in his neck as I walked towards him. He was kneeling down, almost in an execution-style position, and I felt a tiny surge of emotion. Not pity or remorse. More like when you have a sudden urge to cry because the aesthetics of a scene or situation are overwhelming.
Here were two people, man and wife, both of whom had repeatedly made conscious decisions to effect the murders of innocent people. And here I was, a man who was once innocent, but who had since chosen to become a murderer in the name of a twisted form of justice. In that moment I wondered if I really was different from Patel or Shalini. Didn’t they believe in the righteousness of what they were doing, just as I was finding it so easy to justify my own acts of violence? Who makes that call, I wondered.
Then I smiled.
I do, I thought. I make that call.
I raised my fork and stepped forward to complete my act of arrogant judgment, but perhaps I moved too slow. Or perhaps Mo just had an itchy trigger finger.
This time there was no second shot because the first one left no doubt. The bullet went clean through his head, burning a straight line through the gray matter just behind the eyes. He stayed there on his knees for several seconds, his blank dead face begging my forgiveness. I shook my head and smiled and thought of that cliché: forgiveness is up to God; our job is simply to make sure you meet Him.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Although I did take a quick look out of the open living room window, I didn’t expect to see Mo. I was slightly embarrassed, but thankful. Also, I understood why she came. She was experienced enough to know that I wasn’t experienced enough yet. I had made several mistakes—some in planning, and more during execution. Mo had spent years developing young consultants, and she knew that the best way to grow someone into a leader is to let them go ahead and lead something even if they’re not quite ready. For some things, the only way to get ready is to actually do it. Murder is one of those things.
As I snapped on my surgical gloves and methodically cleaned away all traces of my presence in the house, I wondered about the risk Mo had taken. You have to assume that the feds pay attention to certain kinds of weapons purchases, and you’d think a sniper rifle is on that list. I shook my head as I thought about Ramona Garcia.
After flushing the toilet and covering the bowl with an overdose of that blue stuff, I took one final look around the house and nodded to myself. I paused and stared at the rapidly drying food on Patel’s dinner plate, but then decided there was no need to take the poisonous entrée with me. I peered through the side window to make sure the neighbors weren’t around. They weren’t, and I walked out the front door.
I polished both doorknobs with a paper towel, and then walked to my car while humming a melancholy variation of the Mario Brothers theme. Sorry, Miss Amanita. Tonight was not our night. But please don’t sulk. We will dance together another time.
FIFTY-NINE
“Ramona Garcia,” said Mo.
It was after midnight, and we had just eaten a spicy meal at a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant a block from the San Francisco Hilton. We were strolling towards the beautifully lit Union Square when Mo mentioned the name.
I turned to her in surprise.
Mo smiled and nodded. “Yes. We go way back.”
I coughed out some cigarette smoke and stared at Mo. “Back like how?”
“Back to the beginning. Garcia used to be at the FBI’s Houston field office. She had her eye on Simone for many years. And when Simone recruited me, Garcia began to watch me too.”
“So she’s questioned you before? You didn’t act like you knew her when she interviewed us in Milwaukee.”
“No. I had never met her before. Simone and I just knew about her.” Mo smiled. “Anyway, she was getting pretty close. At least Simone thought so.”
“Close to getting some hard evidence?”
Mo nodded. “Yes. On some of Simone’s early jobs, including her husband’s boating accident.” Mo smiled at me. “I assume she told you about that?”
“Yes.” I was stunned, and my thoughts raced as I began to re-evaluate Simone’s reasons for suicide.
“In fact, Simone was pretty sure that Garcia could nail her for her husband anytime she wanted.”
“So why wait?”
I sighed. “But then you stopped working with Simone when I came along. I was too good to pass up—your words, not mine.”
Mo laughed, but it was a sad, wistful laugh. “Well, you were. The Network is bigger than any one of us. We’re all guilty of murder, and we all know we’re going to have to pay. We’re killers, but we’re not hypocrites.”
My voice wavered. “And so . . . Simone . . . with the train . . .”
Mo nodded. “Yes. Simone knew her time was up. Garcia was going to cut her losses and bring Simone in for her husband’s murder. No way was Simone going to jail.” Mo smiled, and a tear rolled down her soft skin. “We had talked about it many times.”
We circled the square in a shared trance of heightened silence. I could feel Simone around us, embracing us, letting us know she was okay. As we walked back towards O’Farrell Street and the Hilton, I smiled at Mo.
“Well, doesn’t it mean you’re in the clear? I mean, with Simone gone, there aren’t any witnesses to your early work. And if there was hard evidence, you’d be arrested by now.”
Mo nodded and then looked at the ground. “Yeah, but it’s not the early work I’m worried about.”
“What? Janesville? But you weren’t even in the house. Chester and Simone are both dead, and if there’s any physical evidence in that house, it’ll point to me.”
Mo shook her head. “No. You’ll be okay. In fact, that’s why I bought the sniper rifle under my own name.”
I looked at her. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s only a matter of time before they figure out that shots were fired into the Janesville house from outside. They’ll dig the slugs out of the wall and realize it was a high-powered rifle. Then they’ll extrapolate the trajectory and calculate that the shooter was positioned at the rest-stop on the highway. And then they’ll—”
I snorted. “That doesn’t prove shit.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” Mo smiled and touched the tender spot on her side just above her hip. “And then they’ll find my blood.”
SIXTY
I refused to believe her. “But you can’t be certain about the blood. Didn’t you check the area before we picked you up?”
Mo sighed. “Yes, but I wasn’t looking for blood. The area where I set up the gun had a blacktop patch, and I wouldn’t have noticed.” She turned to me and smiled. “Frank, when I saw I was bleeding in the car, I realized the bloodline was all the way down my leg. I had felt the wetness earlier, but since it was hot and humid that day, I assumed it was sweat.”
“But still. You don’t know for sure.” I thought for a moment. “What about the weather? They must have gotten some more rain over the last couple of weeks.”
“Not enough. Plus, the area had heavy tree cover.”
We entered the hotel lobby. It was empty, and we stood in the middle of the gigantic open room and stared at each other.
“Okay. Let’s think worst-case scenario,” I said, putting on my consulting risk-management hat. “Say Garcia finds the blood and matches it to you. The gun is long gone, and they wouldn’t be able to connect it to you anyway. So it’s all just circumstantial, right?”
She nodded.
Now I was puzzled and angry at her most recent decision. “So why the hell did you buy a rifle under your own name and use it to kill two people? Especially when it’ll be easy to prove that you were in California at the time and connected to the victims?” I shook my head and tried not to curse out loud. “I don’t get it. You just turned dismissable coincidence into convincing evidence. Now they would have a case against you even if there’s no blood at that rest-stop. Or they could lie about the blood and try and get you to confess, and you have no way of knowing whether or not they’re bluffing.” I was getting worked up, and I began to pace on the thick carpet of the Hilton’s lobby. “Goddammit, Mo. What is going on?”
Mo smiled. She didn’t look me in the eye. “Frank, it’s getting to the end of the line for me.” Now she looked up. “And I wanted to leave you in a position where you have a chance to get out.”
I was furious. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Let’s step back outside,” said Mo. “I need a smoke, anyway.”
We walked back out onto O’Farrell Street and stared up at the moon. We lit cigarettes and I waited for Mo to explain herself.
Mo laughed. She didn’t take her eyes off the moon. “Well, the timing is working out pretty well. See, the new Omega doesn’t know who you are yet—we have a protocol that requires a waiting period before I reveal your identity. So for another ten days or so, I’m the only living person in the Network that knows about you.”
I stared at her in disbelief.
Mo turned to me and smiled. “And Garcia’s got nothing on you. So once I’m gone, you’re free.”
I refused to think about what she was saying. “Screw this freedom crap. What’s this shit about ‘once you’re gone’? What the hell does that mean?”
“I told you, Simone and I talked about it. We knew we’d have to pay for what we’ve done. But we also knew that jail wasn’t an option.”
I dropped my cigarette and crushed it with my shoe. “Then you can run. Resign from C&C and disappear. You have money. After things cool off, we can continue our work.”
Mo laughed. “Frank, my job as a management consultant is what allows me to do the work in the first place. Without that, we won’t have access to the same people or the same information. We’d just be putzing around trying to clean up street trash, and there are others much better suited for that work.” She shook her head. “No. I’m not going to run.”
I thought she was going to say something else, but then Mo just stared back up at the moon and went quiet. The answer was so obvious now that I was appalled I hadn’t figured it out earlier. In fact, I should have guessed it the moment she told me about her daughter. After all, Mo had turned herself into a killer in order to understand what her daughter had gone through. How could I think she wouldn’t replicate her daughter’s final act? Mo would want to go out the same way. She had perhaps decided this even before her entry into the Network. All that killing was just delaying the inevitable. The last life she took would be her own.
Mo snapped her fingers in front of my face and I jerked my head away.
“Hey. Don’t look so sad. I’m still here, you know.” She smiled at me and punched my shoulder. “It’s not over yet. We’ve got one more to do.”
A tiny dart of optimism and hope shot across my synapses. “One more? You mean . . .”
Mo shrugged and started to walk back towards the hotel. “It seems only right that we do a farewell run.”
I scurried after her like a child who’s just been told he can go back to the playground for another turn on the merry-go-round. Hell, yes.
SIXTY-ONE
Our farewell run, it turned out, would be meaningful in another way. It would bring closure to some unfinished business.
C&C would be hosting an invite-only symposium for a select group of hedge funds. It’s something that the New York offices of many consulting firms like to do. Any time you can bring current and potential clients into a closed discussion, it’s good for your sales pipeline.
And yes, my old friends from MacroResearch, Charter Capital, and The NationFirst Fund were all on the invite list. They had accepted, which surprised me at first, but I soon understood. After the 2008-2009 meltdown, the Securities and Exchange Commission, along with its international sister organizations, had increased regulation and oversight of hedge funds. Although funds still wouldn’t have to disclose their proprietary investment strategies, the introduction of any sort of oversight to a previously unregulated industry creates worry for the incumbents. And this would be especially so for
small funds that might have something to hide.
Although MacroResearch, Charter, and NationFirst were packaging and distributing their holdings in ways that weren’t technically illegal, they couldn’t risk any of their investments becoming public. Even if they didn’t get into legal trouble, they would undoubtedly lose investors if the finance departments of America’s largest public companies realized they were indirectly providing working capital to rogue nations and despots who were issuing highly suspect—and therefore highly lucrative—treasury bonds. And since the interpretation and handling of the new SEC requirements was one of the hot topics for the C&C Hedge Fund Symposium, we had a high acceptance rate on our invites.
It had been easy to get our three target funds on the list, since Mo was one of the main partners sponsoring the event. She’d be giving a keynote speech, and was also scheduled to appear on several panels.
And as with any such event, consultants clamored to be involved because it meant getting some face-time with senior partners, and so there were at least a dozen C&C analysts, associates, and seniors handling everything from the catering menus to conference room reservations to preparing content for the discussions and breakout sessions. Naturally, I was brought in to work with Mo to prepare her PowerPoint slides as well as anything else she needed—like planning ten murders.
The symposium was to be held over a three-day weekend at the Ritz Carlton near Battery Park at the southern tip of Manhattan island. It was a corner lot, and had views of the city, the Statue of Liberty, and the open Atlantic Ocean. Seemingly perfect for a massacre to end all massacres. Literally speaking.
Still, the idea of doing the kills at a C&C event bothered me. No matter how discreet we were, if Ramona Garcia had any doubt left, this would take care of it. For someone watching Mo, the correlation of kills, C&C clients, and her presence would be impossible to dismiss.
I had suggested to Mo that we pose as investors and visit the offices of each fund on separate days, but she had refused to entertain the option. She didn’t seem concerned about the blatant connection between C&C clients being killed and our proximity to those murders. Mo was confident Garcia would get no evidence on me. As for herself, well, Mo wasn’t worried. “We’ll both be free after this one,” was all she said to me.