by E Y Mak
All eyes around the oval table turned to Candice. All but one. Candice cleared her voice to begin speaking when Bob Regan put his hand in the air to stop her. Instead, he spoke.
“Yes. We understand that Russell Woo, Daniel Peters, and Candice Pirelli were retained to investigate the suicide of Tim Butler. They uncovered evidence that Mauritius directed a local agent in New York to stage Tim Butler’s suicide and fabricate the securities misconduct of Ndian Resources, the company for whom Mr. Butler was the president and chief executive officer. Then, Daniel was murdered for his role in the investigation and Candice and Russell went missing. Similar computer forensic evidence initially arose to suggest that Candice and Russell were involved with Daniel’s murder, but I am satisfied beyond doubt now that such evidence was fabricated to impede our investigation.” Bob Regan looked down to read a set of notes in front of him. “Even the videos used to incriminate were fabricated using something called human image synthesis based on artificial intelligence.”
The officer in Hong Kong spoke. “Thank you, S.D. Regan. That is consistent with the information obtained by Ricardo. His information also uncovered a headquarters in Cameroon, situated very closely to Ndian’s mining interests. A private investigator from one of the regional outfits here, Yin-Lok Investigations, was able to get us specific coordinates on where she expects the base to be. He’s been funneling money into Cameroon for some time now. Based on the information that we’ve obtained, we’ve concluded that Mauritius has sold the project to the locals as a computer-security firm. But it’s located in a remote area of the country that doesn’t make sense. We suspect that Mauritius is physically moving all of his illegally obtained information to servers in Cameroon under the guise of being a massive data farm. A database with so much information has an enormous value—and Delgado wants to prevent others from accessing the information to maximize such value.”
A greying man with a crooked nose on the London-office screen interjected. “What do the CIA and NSA know about this? The Russians? The Chinese?”
Bob responded. “I can say that my contacts at the CIA and NSA have not indicated any knowledge of this repository of information. They've certainly been keeping their eyes on Mauritius—as they do on all persons of a certain net worth—but I’m not aware of any specific knowledge of this troubling information. If they did, they’re going to want a piece of that database. Think of all the information that the NSA could get, without restriction on whether or not they obtained such information legally.”
A man wearing thick horned glasses in the Moscow office spoke next. “That’s a similar situation from the FSB. They are obviously not sharing much with us on this.”
After further updates from Johannesburg, Berlin, and Buenos Aires, it was clear to Candice that Mauritius had managed to stay under the radar in the world.
“So what’s the plan?” Bob asked, swiveling his office chair to point towards the Hong Kong feed.
“We should notify the G8,” said Frans Wisnewski, the German director.
Before anyone could respond, John Phineas suddenly stood up and said his first words of the meeting.
“No G8. No one knows of this organization yet. Let’s do it ourselves. We hit them before they have a chance to use this information any more. This repository has the potential to be one of the most dangerous criminal organizations in the world. They have our secrets. They have our clients’ secrets. We are entrusted with information that can topple world economies. What this man has potentially threatens everyone on this planet. We have a duty to end this.”
Hong Kong responded. “Agreed. We think it’s best to send in a fully armed Merc team to destroy the information. I nominate my agent here, Ricardo, to lead a scouting mission before the Mercs arrive. He was the man that caught up to Russell and worked with the Yin-Lok detective to uncover the repository.”
The camera panned to the Hong Kong director’s right, where a gruff-looking Latino-American with a strong jaw, a broken nose and solid, focused eyes sat. Hong Kong continued. “He’ll be joined by Benita. She was instrumental in assisting our organization with gaining access to Mauritius’s offices in Hong Kong.”
Bob stood up. “I object to that. We have plenty of in-house tech guys that can deal with this. We can’t leave it to someone on the outside like her.”
“We expect you to bring along your best technicians from the New York war room,” said Hong Kong.
An African man with pronounced jowls and freckles spoke in a French accent much heavier than Leslie Augustine’s. “Where in Cameroon is Mauritius building this repository?” It was the managing director of Johannesburg.
“Xander, it is in the southwest region near Mount Cameroon. Our rendezvous point will be in Debundscha, a town on the southwest coast of the country.”
Johannesburg spoke again in his loud, abrupt voice, dominating the soft-spoken Hong Kong manager. “You speak as though we have already been cleared with Cameroon to send in Mercs. We can’t just walk in and mount an assault on Cameroon citizens!”
Hong Kong responded. “You and I are set up for a conference call with Cameroon President Dokunanga at 06:00 GMT. He’s already been briefed on what’s happening. Our people will have clearance for both air and ground support within twelve hours.”
After a final overview with Ricardo outlining the high-level details of the assault, the camera returned to the man from Hong Kong.
“Any questions?” he asked.
Candice leaned into the microphone embedded in the table in front of her.
“What has happened to Russell?” she asked.
“When his cellphone activated in Fuengirola, we immediately dispatched agents to recover him,” said Ricardo off-screen in Hong Kong. “Unfortunately, before we could do so, we understand that Mauritius captured him. We think they’re taking him to Cameroon.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Later that morning
Candice walked along a brightly lit hallway with Bob Regan. When they walked to the end of the hall, they came to a dark-haired elderly woman seated at a corner cubicle.
“Dorothy, this is Candice Pirelli,” Bob said in a tired voice. Dorothy reached out to Candice, and they shook hands.
Bob turned to Candice. “Each of the Phineas branch offices has been asked to send three delegates to oversee the review and recovery of any information that may have been stolen from our location. I have been tasked to head over to Cameroon to represent New York’s interests.”
Thoughts swirled around Candice’s head. She had never flown to the African continent before. She was an avid traveler, having visited fourteen countries in the last five years, but she had never left for a foreign country on a half-day notice. Before she could object, Bob continued.
“Dorothy has already made the necessary arrangements for us to fly out this evening. We have your medical history on file, head down to seventeen and get the rest of your vaccinations for traveling to Cameroon. It’s not the ideal vaccination schedule, but it will have to do. Afterward, head to IT and check out a set of tactical gear. Then drop by the war room and grab Petri Ulanov. He’s going to be joining us.”
“Okay. What about the Mercs? Are they flying with us out of New York?” she asked.
“No. They’re marshaling in Johannesburg and entering the country by helicopter. We’ll be going in through a private jet and a joint Phineas-Cameroon army convoy.” In a lower voice, he said, “Oh, and by the way, we shouldn’t really be calling them Mercs publicly. Seems to suggest that they are mercenaries. Lots of political issues with that. Yes, they’re all ex-special forces. But we always try to keep them on a low profile—the public doesn’t like that Phineas has a special militarized department. Always play it down.”
Candice nodded. “Understood. But why are you telling me that?”
“We’ll all be getting a lot of media attention once this thing blows up. Try to defer to our communications team, but that won’t always be possible. Always be prepared.”
> Chapter Sixty-Two
Squeak.
Russell opened his eye and stared straight towards a set of vertical iron bars.
Squeak.
He sat up and closed his eyes to focus on the sound. He had heard it before. It was the sound of the squeaky wheel of the kitchen cart rolling on the cold cement floor. He opened his eyes slowly, hoping that doing so would somehow transport him back to his apartment in New York. It didn’t.
Russell stared straight into the empty ten-by-ten-foot room that had served as his address for the past six days. The cell had walls on three sides, made of large rectangular stone bricks. The fourth wall opened to the hallway, except for the iron bars of his cell. On previous days, he had tried to stick his head out and count the number of cells in the room. He counted at least ten. However, he had been the only prisoner in the cellblock the entire time that he had been here. He stretched his legs and arms and sat up on the metal cot that served as his bed. He looked at the yellowing pillow at the head of the cot. It was the one creature comfort afforded to him by Mauritius.
Scanning around, he saw the empty metal bowl where he had left it last night. He was served two meals each day, sometime in the morning and again in the evening. It was always a local food, usually practical but not to his tastes. Russell consumed it purely to maintain his sanity and strength.
Squeak.
It was louder now. The cart was now just outside the cell door and the morning server, Serge, pushed the food cart into view. His deep-set, elderly eyes expressed wisdom, and the scars on his exposed arms and the calluses on his hands evidenced a rough life working in agriculture. The cart pulled up as Russell slid his food bowl to the marking on the ground where he was to leave it.
“Bonjour, Serge,” Russell said in Canadian French. “What’s for breakfast today?”
“Same,” the wiry old man responded in a quiet, monotone French. He ladled a large bowlful of a rusty slop into the bowl. Russell always tried to engage Serge in conversation, but Serge ignored him and spun his cart around slowly before wheeling it back down the hallway. Russell waited for the opening and closing of the door before picking up the bowl with both hands.
The meal was a pasty and unappetizing suspension of millet in room-temperature water. He closed his eyes, raised the edge of the bowl to his lips and sipped two mouthfuls. He was rationing the slop to last him over five hours. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now.
Aside from Serge, his only other visitor was Fabron, the evening server. Fabron, a heavily muscled African, always dressed in a camo-print military jacket, matching pants, and a tuque. He usually had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, even while simply pushing the millet-paste cart. He had a wide face, a blemished complexion, and a gapped tooth. Russell had tried to make light conversation with him, but was only afforded an intense stare.
Having minimally satisfied his hunger, Russell turned his mind to the escape opportunities that he had been considering since his arrival. Russell had meticulously inspected the room from top to the bottom the first day he had been here. He had found no weaknesses in the cell. Russell surmised that the unit had been built recently, given the freshness of the paint and the condition of the iron bars. It had been done purposefully and professionally and was unlikely to yield to brute force. He needed to bide his time.
After a few more sips of the millet paste, Russell noticed an acrid smell wafted in through the window. He stepped towards the window in his bare feet and looked outside. The window was set on what seemed to be the third or fourth floor, but the building was also set on top of a hill. He had a five-star view of a jungle below. About two hundred yards away, he could see smoke drifting up from an area of trees at the base of the hill. A dull orange flame peeked from the jungle canopy. Down below, a group of men in camouflage rushed towards the source of the fire haphazardly, about five in total. He could hear angry yelling, and within twenty minutes the orange blaze had been extinguished. Russell was keeping track of all the people that he had seen so far, trying to get an idea of how busy the base was. He couldn’t tell, but if they could send five men to put out a small brush fire, they were probably well stocked.
As he took another sip of the millet paste, he heard the metal cellblock door open and close, then footsteps coming towards his cell. For the first time, he heard multiple sets of footsteps. He quickly gulped down the rest of the millet paste before walking back to his bed. He sat down to face his audience.
Mauritius, Dominique, and Fabron arrived at the cell and stood facing him on the opposite side of the bars. Mauritius sneered with his eyes fixed upon Russell. Dominique stood behind him with his usual steely determination, unmoving like a stone. Fabron stood casually, swaying slightly.
“Mr. Woo,” Mauritius greeted him with a subtle nod.
Russell suppressed his instinct to reciprocate. “Is it lunchtime already?” he asked. Mauritius smiled harder, revealing two rows of crooked teeth.
“You have access to information about Phineas that I find very interesting.” He opened his hand, revealing Russell’s Phineas smartphone. “I just need your password. Oh, and don’t worry, I masked the phone’s IP and GPS location. Your phone is not going to lead anyone here.”
Russell said, “Yeah, but I’ve already leaked your plans. Phineas has got the best investigators in the world looking for you. You’ve got a target on your back.”
“Is that so?” Mauritius walked parallel to the bars, rapping gently on each one as he passed them. “You’d really think that, wouldn’t you. But when it really comes down to it—do you believe it? Do you not think I would build this data center without protecting myself?”
Russell said in his most casual voice. “It’s only a matter of time before they arrive.”
“Senor, you’re getting, how do you say it, lost in the weeds. Missing the big picture. You don’t understand where you fit in. You see rules and you feel obligated to stay within them. Must have been a good lawyer, Russell. Me? I’m just a businessman peddling information. And like all good businesses, I’m prepared for the risks.”
“I know what’s going on. You’re finding out people’s deepest, darkest secrets, then blackmailing them into doing what you want,” Russell growled. “I know the psychopath that you’ve set loose in New York. And I know what information you have on him.”
“That’s the genius of it, no? The same information has different value to different people. I just broker the information. If the highest bidder is also the subject of the information, so what?” said Mauritius, entirely unphased by Russell’s anger. “One thing about having all the information in the world, Russell, is that I can choose to sell it, I can choose to keep it, or I can do whatever else I want with it. Everyone has skeletons in their closets, Russell, including you. Including my friend, President Dokunanga.”
Thoughts raced through Russell’s mind. Mauritius conceivably had attached puppet strings to some of the most powerful and influential people in the world. He could strategically call in a favor at any time.
“So that’s how you did it, huh, Mauritius? How you managed to keep your record so squeaky clean after all these years? It’s that simple? Pay the right people to keep quiet?” said Russell, mockingly.
Mauritius’s smile broadened even more. “I see that you are finally starting to catch on. An organization as big and as old as yours will certainly be full of exciting secrets. You’re going to play a part in helping me get what I want.”
Russell stifled the laugh that was about to fly out of his mouth. “You’re kidding, right? I would never help you, but even if I would, I would have no idea how. I’m a detective, not an egghead.”
“I have my ways. Or rather, my friends do.”
Fabron and Dominique both stepped forward. After Fabron unlocked the cell door, both brutes entered. Fabron came first and grabbed Russell’s left bicep. Dominique grabbed his right arm.
“Let’s go to the interview room,” Mauritius said.
Chapter
Sixty-Three
Somewhere over the Atlantic
Candice woke abruptly to the sound of the check-seatbelt sign lighting up overhead. She looked down and remembered that she had already fastened her seatbelt. As she grabbed the Moleskine notebook she had left on the dining tray, a grumpy voice spoke from her right.
“Don’t leave your notebook just lying out like that unattended.”
Candice looked over and saw Bob Regan sitting in the seat across from her on the chartered private flight. Just past him, on the other side of the aisle, sat Petri focusing intensely on a large notebook computer crushing his lap. The muffled music coming out of his headphones broke the silent hum of the jet engines.
“It seems like a small thing, but we deal in secrets. You can never be too careful,” Bob said.
“Sorry, Bob,” she said.
Geeze, he’s pedantic.
“Just looking out for you, kid. I had my notebook stolen in my first year at Phineas. Never heard the end of it. Truth be told, our jobs rely on our constant vigilance,” he said condescendingly.
Candice wanted to avoid talking to Bob any further, so she looked at the flight progress indicator on the main display in the cabin. They were about six hours into the flight from Brussels to Yaoundé, the capital of Cameroon. She debated getting up to stretch her legs when Bob broke the silence.
“Have you ever been to Africa?” he asked.
“No,” said Candice, “Never been. You?”
“Once. South Africa. I was at the Securities and Exchange Commission then. Enforcement division. Let me see. We were investigating some suspicious arbitrage trading between the NYSE and JSE. Back then, our security protocols were not as sophisticated and instantaneous as they are now, and collaboration between the regulators usually required an actual physical presence,” Bob said. He looked up, as though trying to recall details of the war story. “So the SEC and Financial Services Board of South Africa swapped agents. Anyway, we managed to locate and track our target to a hotel in Johannesburg. Was in and out in four days—the guy was shrewd in New York but didn’t care to cover his tracks well enough over there.”