The List Conspiracy (Wallis Jones Series 2016)

by Martha Carr

  Wallis tapped Ned on the arm with her left hand, knowing he would quickly counter. She tapped him hard with her right, momentarily winning before Ned grazed her arm and backed up out of the way. She leaned in and caught him on the top of his head, turned and ran out of his room before he could get her back. She went down a few steps before turning back. “Socks and shoes now, Ned,” she said, making him stop at the top of the stairs as he seemed to realize she was using their little game to get him downstairs faster.

  “I know what you’re up to,” he said.

  “You only think you do,” said Wallis, turning to walk down the stairs. “Bring your backpack with you and come on.”

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Like I’d know.”

  “Other mothers cook,” he called out to her retreating back.

  “And that means?”

  “I’m going to win, you know,” he yelled.

  “Let me know when,” she said, rounding the corner and walking into the kitchen.

  Chapter Six

  “He’s not going to like this.”

  “When has he ever liked any news? When has he ever liked talking at all?”

  “No, this is different. They’re getting closer. Do you think they suspect him?”

  “No, if they did, he’d be dead,” said Mark, putting out his cigarette. “That’s why you don’t know who he is.” He looked down at his iPhone, sliding his thumb over the screen as he quickly sent a short text.

  “But it’s not good, that guy turning up dead. An outsider and an apparent suicide,” muttered Fred. “What makes a murder look like it is apparently a suicide? And that’s the third one this year,” he squeaked out. “Doesn’t anyone notice that the forensics crew in this town is hedging their bets?” Fred fidgeted with the small pin on his lapel, spinning it around and around. The tight circle of 13 stars disappeared into a white blur against the deep blue background. Mark wore a matching pin in the exact same spot on his lapel.

  “We’re not talking about this any further. What’s done is done.”

  The two men were standing outside of the James Center, one of the taller buildings that passed for a skyscraper in Richmond. Fred was slowly nursing an overpriced cup of gourmet coffee he had gotten from one of the nearby carts.

  The low, early morning sun bounced off of the polished brown granite that was harvested in the next county over, just beyond the suburbs of the far West End and well out of the city limits. It put a glare right into the faces of the drivers coming down the steep hill as they headed toward work and made winter commutes particularly slow.

  The gleaming tower situated along the lower end of Main Street had a duplicate sitting right next door and locals differentiated between the two buildings by the statues that sat in front of them. This one had an enormous bronze of well-endowed larger than life naked men trying to haul up a sail.

  Law offices, restaurants, upscale shops and adjuncts to the nearby Federal Reserve building occupied the tower behind the two men. They were meeting in the middle of the usual breakfast crowd bustle as they did every morning whether there was news to trade or not. It had been Mark’s idea. That way they would go unnoticed by casual observers and the Watchers that were always around might miss the few moments that were actually worth listening in on.

  Small clusters of people were gathered everywhere in the urban paved park that stretched between the building and the mostly upscale food carts parked along the street.

  “Quit playing with that, Fred. Don’t draw attention to it,” said Mark. It came out like more of an order. Fred’s hand fell away from the pin on his lapel.

  Neither one of the men stood out easily in downtown Richmond. Both had on the uniform that defined staid upper middle class men in the small southern city. Grey suit with a barely visible light grey or blue pin stripe and a tie that often reflected an alma mater. Fred’s graying hair was neatly trimmed, cut just above the collar and ears while Mark had an afro that was just this side of being shaved. Fred wore the Florsheim’s and Mark mixed it up a little with Italian loafers. There wasn’t much to notice.

  “Like they don’t know who we are,” said Fred, letting out a deep sigh. “They’ve always known who we are, remember? They picked us out.”

  Fred nervously looked around and nodded discreetly in the direction of the small group of women sitting on the ledge near the basin by the entrance to the building.

  “Secretaries are the worst,” he said, “constantly going through the files, asking questions.”

  “Or they’re just doing their job, Fred. You can’t let this stuff get to you. Come on, you used to be better at all of this. What happened?”

  “They killed some guy who was never on the list, that’s what happened.”

  “Yeah, I know, but they see us as harmless and I’d like to keep it that way,” said Mark. “I have a nice quiet life going on and it’d be nice to make it to old age with my streak intact.”

  “How do you think they even knew about some country boy who’s living in the suburbs?” asked Fred. Fred stuffed his hand into his pants pocket where he began to clink together the few coins he had left after stopping at the Gourmet on the Go cart. Mark gave him a withering look but it was just to hide his own growing restlessness. Fred’s information about the missing Circle file worried him but he wasn’t about to let Fred know that.

  “Well, I have to do something with my hands,” snapped Fred.

  “I have to get back to work anyway,” said Mark. “Quarter’s almost finished, numbers will be due out soon.” Mark was a senior technology architect with the Richmond office of the Federal Reserve.

  “Someone’s going to have to deal with it,” began Fred, but Mark abruptly cut him off.

  “Not you,” he hissed. “You drop it. There are channels to go through and it’ll get taken care of. You did your part. I’ll take it from here. You forget all of this and go back to your job.”

  Fred looked like he was about to say something but finished the last of his coffee instead.

  “Talk to you later,” he mumbled as he tossed the cup in a nearby trash can and he turned to head toward the building.

  “I’ll see you later,” said Mark, as he walked toward the Gourmet cart, giving a quick glance around to note how many people were still left outside. The numbers were thinning as he reached for his iPhone, quickly tapping the screen and sliding a new picture into view. The swift slides and tapping quickly turned off the small frequency generator that was installed to put out a low-level white noise undetectable to human ears.

  The family photo of his kids popped into view as he gave a slight tap and dropped the phone back into his coat pocket.

  “A large coffee, leave room for cream,” he said, pulling out his wallet. The two dollar bills were tucked behind the rest with the corners carefully bent. He always paid with cash wherever he went so that it was less noticeable when he was passing messages.

  Carefully chosen bills were always at hand, the serial numbers ending in three digits that specified whether or not it was necessary to meet or if someone had been pegged by the larger forces. Or, even worse, if information was sliding in and out of hands that were never meant to have it. The meanings behind the short series of numbers changed every quarter and varied depending on the region of the country. Even then, only certain cells within the Circle knew their own series and even fewer knew the numbers of other regions. They were all playing games with a large, well-organized force that had more members that were trained from a very early age to be loyal to the other side, to Management. It was better if information about who was an active part of the Circle was kept to a minimum.

  “Let me get it.” The man had suddenly appeared by Mark’s side and ordered a muffin. Mark glanced up to see if it was a stranger and looked for the familiar lapel pin, but there was nothing there.

  “Thank you, but I have it,” he said, trying to sound distracted, feeling his heart rate picking up speed. It was unusual to see anyone
he didn’t recognize hanging around this time of day.

  “No, really,” insisted the man. “My good deed for the day.” He had a distinctive southern accent and looked the part of a Richmond businessman as Mark quickly tried to assess if he’d been made. He kept his hand out, the dollar bills hanging in the air.

  “I thought I knew everyone around these parts. You new?” said Stephen, the owner of the Gourmet cart. Stephen was well known to all of the regulars. “It’s nice when everyone’s trying to throw money at me,” not giving the man a chance to answer. “Good sign for business,” he said as he deftly took both men’s money and made change before anyone could argue.

  “Thanks anyway,” said Mark, as he quickly took the cup from Stephen.

  “Robert, Robert Schaeffer. I just started up the street,” he said, pointing toward the large grey Federal Reserve building. “Just moved here from Savannah.”

  “Mark Whiting, I’m in the same building.” Mark was watching Robert’s every move, trying to quickly figure out whether or not information was being offered or taken away.

  “I know, I saw you head down the hill. I’ve had to move around a lot,” said Robert, “and I’ve learned if you want to find the good coffee you have to follow the locals,” he said raising his cup with the familiar Gourmet logo. “I like your pin,” he said, gesturing toward the small circle of stars. Mark flinched just a little and stepped back as the last of the morning stragglers squeezed past him to buy something from the cart. Stephen made a point to leave the two men alone.

  “I used to have one,” said Robert, “but I lost it in one of those moves.”

  So it was a warning, thought Mark, to let him know he had his own personal Watcher now. A made man who had decided to rejoin Management. They always made the best Watchers.

  Everyone in this game knew who they were playing against. That was never a secret. After all, Management had chosen each of them for the list when they were only twelve years old and had guided them through their education and first jobs, calling on them occasionally to make a certain choice, vote a certain way or join a particular group. It was generally never heavy-handed so that all of it would go unnoticed by the masses of people who, generation after generation, were never chosen to be a part of the network.

  Every town, every country had the disenfranchised who were unaware of how the system really worked but railed anyway against how closed-off it all appeared to be.

  What was at stake in this game was knowledge and how the rules were being manipulated. That’s what the missing file might tell the wrong people.

  Knowing he was picked out changed everything for Mark and made him wonder if the file had already found a new home. He thought for a fleeting moment about his three kids but knew that it was pointless to try and get out.

  If he was already in harm’s way there was very little he could do at this point to change whatever it was Management had in mind. The best he could hope for was to get an idea of what they were planning and pass it on later if he got the chance. Maybe the guy would say just a little too much. Suddenly his mouth was dry.

  “Are you hoping this is more of a permanent move?” asked Mark.

  “For at least a year or two, maybe. It’d be nice to settle down with the boys for some time. I’m a widower and its tough dragging the kids everywhere especially since they’re all starting to get a little older and entering middle school.”

  Mark hesitated for a moment. Robert appeared to be reaching out for shelter. Mentioning the boys’ age was a message. Perhaps they had been chosen and were about to start entering the right groups and attend the right schools. This was where it became impossible to turn back.

  “Sorry about your wife. That’s tough, being a single parent.”

  “Yeah, and I’m fairly new at the job. Carol, my wife, she’s only been gone less than a year. We’re all still adjusting and now this move. The boys aren’t all that happy with me right now.” He looked nervous, quickly licking his lips. Mark noticed his fingernails looked chewed to the quick and he had dark circles under his eyes.

  “Maybe we should head up the street,” said Mark, suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable they were talking out in the open. “I need to get back to my desk. Thanks Stephen,” he said, waving goodbye. Stephen nodded and started packing up the cart. The morning rush was over.

  The two men started slowly walking up the sidewalk toward the Federal Reserve at a pace that passed for quickly in the south but resembled more of a stroll.

  “You have any family in the area?” asked Mark.

  “No, all of my people are from Georgia, have been for generations. I still have a brother in Macon who works for Mohawk Industries. Two sisters but both of them moved to Florida. I guess most of us felt the need to head out on our own.” He dragged out the words, glancing at Mark.

  “How many places have you lived?” he asked. It had turned into a game of cat and mouse but Mark wasn’t sure who was the prey. If Robert were really a Watcher he was good at drawing out sympathy and knew a lot about the Circle.

  It would be easier to treat him as a hostile and exchange pleasantries hoping he’d slip and give away even the smallest bit of information. If he were friendly to the Circle he could still be full of valuable information that with the right pressure could be removed by either side.

  The lapel pin wasn’t easy to come by and if he was really a member of the Circle but had lost his pin and his contacts were dead, he was floating dangerously free of any support with no way to easily connect back to a cell. The Circle had started out with the idea that only one member of each cell would know who to contact up or down the line of command for the two units above or below. The danger had been exposed though when a generation back an entire group was found out and too many links met tragic ends.

  However, the system could leave individual members out in the wind, unsure of what to do next but with families to protect. It was possible Robert had been on his own since his wife died. It was also possible that was why she died. If that were true he was taking a risk chatting with Mark at all.

  “So, how did your wife die?” Mark gently asked, giving Robert the chance to tell him more.

  “Died in a boating accident. At least it was ruled an accident,” he said, looking worn out as he gave a small shrug. “Ten years of sailing without a problem and she dies on a calm lake right before Christmas. I found her entangled in the sail.”

  Mark felt his stomach tighten as he held open the door to the building. First this woman, now Ray Billings, maybe others. Something was bothering the Management enough to make them clean house and risk outsiders putting the pieces together. Mark wondered if the missing file held the answer.

  “I’m sorry, that sounds awful,” said Mark. “Look, here’s my card. Maybe we can talk some more, later.” If Robert was a Watcher, handing over his card wouldn’t make any difference. If he was a lost member of the Circle then time wasn’t on the guy’s side. Mark would have to try and figure it out quickly and act.

  “Thanks.” Robert took the card and reached out to shake Mark’s hand. Mark felt the folded dollar bill pressed into his palm and tried not to show any reaction.

  “For the coffee,” said Robert quietly and he quickly turned and headed toward the elevators.

  Mark quickly headed for the stairs and the climb up to his fourth floor office. He often took the stairs trying to constantly create patterns that had been known to come in handy at opportune times.

  When he was safely behind his desk he unfolded the bill to put into his wallet, carefully taking note of the three-numbered sequence. 8-4-2. He typed the numbers swiftly into his iPhone and sent a query, surprised at the sudden response. The decoded message back was clear.

  He had given them an out of date distress code not used since the end of last year throughout the Georgia region. Bring the missing Circle agent back at once. He was valuable property.

  Chapter Seven

  Wallis heard the sound of a spatula scraping ag
ainst a pan and knew it was pancakes. There were already plates set up on the island. She sat down on a barstool and took a sip of her only coffee for the day. Cream, no sugar.

  “Blueberries?” she said.

  “We ran out. I added a little cinnamon and some banana,” said Norman, piling three pancakes onto the plate in front of Wallis.

  “I can still psyche Ned out, but I don’t think it’s going to be much longer,” said Wallis. “Eventually, he’s going to figure out what I’m doing.”

  “Not as long as you make it part of a competition, he won’t. He gets too focused on the wrong goal and can’t see what you’re up to. Of course, it also means you’re playing with our only off-spring’s head.”

  “Wouldn’t that be our reason for having him around?”

  “I thought it was free nursing care in another thirty years.”

  “Ned’ll figure out a way to get somebody else to do it. It may not be a legal means but I don’t see him wiping off drool.”

  “Me neither,” said Norman, “but I figure Ned will either end up living under a bridge or richer than Rockefeller and as a parent I’m very optimistic.” Norman said it without a hint of a smile.

  “Did you smile more as a child?”

  “Yes, but my mother beat those out of me.”

  “Norman! If your mother knew what you were saying, and anyway, it wouldn’t explain Ned,” she said, biting into a forkful. “Teachers have sent home notes asking if Ned is happy, you know that. And I know they’re thinking I’m covering up something or why wouldn’t he smile more?”

  “We Weiskopf men keep our strategies very close to the chest.”

  “More people would realize you were funny if you would smile a little more.”

  “Too many of the people I’m dealing with are too busy listening to themselves talk and at two hundred dollars an hour I prefer to let them run on and on,” said Norman.

  Wallis smiled. “Practical, even in your jokes.” She speared another bite of pancake.