The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller)

by David Khara

  I bang my fist on the bodywork and make a tactical retreat. What the hell was I thinking? I’d forgotten the fear. Excitement and curiosity took me to a place my body isn’t ready to go. I have to get to the office, so I’m good for a cab. I turn and stagger toward the door that leads to the elevator. I’m not drunk, but my vision’s blurry.

  Going up! I give the elevator’s glass wall a big hug. Give me some love! And get me out of here fast! Fresh air, at last. Tonight Central Park isn’t the lungs of the city. It’s my lungs. I like the red brick wall surrounding this section of the park. Tree branches lie on it delicately. When it rains, like now, the leaves trickle water onto the asphalt warmed by the heat of the day. Mist rises, wrapping the neighborhood in a mysterious, almost unreal cocoon.

  There’s my cab. I’m calm now. I should spend more time outdoors. It does me good. I get lucky. The driver’s Haitian but speaks English. “Southward bound, cap’n. Financial district.” No answer. No sense of humor. No surprise.

  Back to the big issue. Why did Mom own a key engraved with a swastika? Why’d she give it to me as soon as she found out Dad had died? And what’s the rolled-up piece of paper in the locket with…What was written on it again? That’s right. UBS LLC 258 2365. I have my own theory about that but nothing definite. At the office I’ll have access to the information I need. At this time of night the Asia crew will be in. Nice guys but a real waste of space. They’d be more use stitching Nikes in Malaysia. At least they’d bring in some money.

  “You work financial district?” The cabbie brings me back to reality. There’s life on his planet.

  “No, I want to go jogging under some really tall buildings—in jeans and in the rain.”

  “All right.”

  Life but maybe not intelligent life. “I’m kidding. Yes, I work there.”

  “You no have car?” Jeez, that’s a Creole accent.

  “No.” What the hell does he care? If I take my car, he loses a fare. This isn’t good.

  He’s staring at me in the rearview. I don’t like that look. That gleam in his eyes. Has he recognized me? No way. Not six months on.

  “I saw you in newspapers last winter.” He pulls to the curb. “Get out.”

  I obey. He doesn’t make me pay what’s on the meter, pulls away and flips me off. Where am I? A minute or so by foot from Pearl Street. I like this part of Manhattan. Pleasure boats on the Hudson. It feels like a vacation in Key Biscayne. I raise the collar of my leather jacket. Rain trickles down my neck. People hate me. It’s to be expected.

  In the daytime, this neighborhood is buzzing. At night it’s a nuclear winter. Not even a rat ventures out here. Just a few security guards watching building entrances and a handful of cops outside the Fed. Nothing with a pulse. It’s ten in the evening, and I’m not drunk. That hasn’t happened in an eternity.

  At last, the office building. Unbeatable views of the Hudson, the full works, including a heliport on the roof—very practical. The building is staffed twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. I ignore the two doormen watching a baseball game. They glance blankly at me. They see idiots like me filing past all day long. I have access to the executive elevator. I run into no one in the long hallway to the elevators. Stan Getz accompanies me on my ride to the forty-third floor. A guy like that plying his talent in an elevator pisses me off. I step into the empty open-plan office and wander through a mini-maze. The kingdom of the telephone, statistics and currency. The history of the world dematerialized. Sauntering past the Asia department, I press an ear to the wafer-thin chipboard wall. Inside, tempers are frayed. Looks like the shit’s hitting the fan in HK or Shanghai. Asian stock exchanges are a mess. I laugh. It feels good. I reach my desk. It looks like a bomb’s hit it. Papers everywhere, magazines, my keyboard buried. The cleanup crew diligently leaves my clutter as is. I sit down, turn on the screens and boot up the hard drives.

  Out of practice with multi-screen, fighting the mouse. Online, at last. This isn’t garden-variety Internet. It’s the financial whiz kids’ network of dedicated servers and sites with confidential information on bank accounts and movement of capital. From here, an informed observer can keep an eye on the whole world’s cash flow. I access UBS accounts we deal with. Nothing. I check to see if the account number appears in a transaction handled by another firm. LLC 258 2365. Nothing. Jesus, that sequence rings a bell. It’s not an account. An idea, quick.

  “If you’re looking for a checking account, you’re off track, Jeremy.” I nearly jump out of my chair.

  “Bernard?” What’s he doing here at this time? I relax when I see what he’s wearing. “Black tux, bow tie, white silk scarf. Classy. A few hours of work to come down from The Magic Flute?” He doesn’t smile. Before he would have smiled.

  “You think I came here at ten thirty at night to talk male fashion and listen to your jokes?”

  In the light of the screens, Bernard looks pretty scary. On his black skin, the red and green reflections give his expression a supernatural tint. “I guess not. So what are you doing here?”

  “Security told me you’d shown up. Luckily, I was having dinner nearby.”

  “How do you know what I’m looking for?”

  “For one very good reason, Jay. I hid it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The coffee’s undrinkable—like melted asphalt. Yummy! The waitress pretends to ignore my disgust. The bar brings in the cash during the day, but at 11 p.m. there are few tourists around Battery Park. The Formica tables create a retro-’50s checkerboard. The American Graffiti look must wow the foreigners. For me, it’s just sordid. I push my cup away. Bernard does likewise. Looking at his face, I figure his thoughts are also wandering in the land of the absurd, the acute awareness of his fancy threads surely playing havoc with his ego.

  “OK, can you level with me now? If we’re here for the coffee, I have better stuff at home, and so do you.”

  “The number in your possession corresponds to a safe-deposit box at Union des Banques Suisses in Zurich. I arranged for it to be in your name.”

  I sit up in my turquoise chair. The revelation piques my curiosity. My voice descends to a whisper. “How do you know that I have a safe-deposit box number in my possession? And why did my mother have it? Why the hell did you take out a box in my name?” I breathe out heavily. “Explain. Fast!”

  “I will. Reluctantly, but I will. The first time you walked into my office, I thought I was seeing your father. Same walk, same buzz cut, same square jaw. But your eyes had a softness that Daniel always lacked.”

  I feel sick. “You know my father?”

  “He was my best friend at military academy. He’d chosen the Air Force, and I wanted to go into intelligence. At one point, we both wanted to date your mother, but he won out. I saw little Jeremy come into the world. I even carried you to the font when you were baptized. So I guess you could say I knew your father well.”

  I take my head in both hands, blowing out hard. The operagoer, however, remains imperturbable. “This is nuts! I’m going crazy. You’re my boss. You hired me on the strength of my resume. This is totally insane.”

  “Calm down. You’ll get it. It’s not too complicated.”

  “Not complicated? My boss blurts out that he is, in fact, my godfather, wanted to sleep with my mother and knows my father better than I do.”

  “It’s pretty simple.”

  I can’t take any more. “Sure, it’s a piece of cake getting on with your life after your dad walks out on you. It’s easy watching your mother wasting away with grief. It’s easy to have the same nightmares over and over to the point that you’re scared of the dark.”

  “You little jerk. The sun revolves around you, doesn’t it? The world’s been horrible to you? Screw you! Look at you, selfishly wrapping yourself up in your own misery. I wasn’t at the wheel that night. It wasn’t me who…”

  My chair flies back, and I grab Bernard Dean by the lapel, fist poised to strike. The adrenalin surges through me, tears well in my eyes. I
’m like a spring about to let loose. “You old bastard! I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

  He doesn’t bat an eye. Calmly wipes the flecks of my spit from his cheeks. The spring snaps. Head slumped, I drown in a flood of tears. I shake from head to foot. I hold my breath and transfer all my energy to my right shoulder. With a beastly, vindictive scream, I punch fast and hard. But all I hit is air. Dean sits there. Just tilts his head a few degrees to his left. His riposte is just as fast. Leaning over the table and off-balance, I feel a hand land on the back of my neck. Big. Broad. Strong.

  “If I push now, your nose will paint the table red. It’ll give you some real pain to whine about. Now sit down and shut up.” The grasp on my neck slackens. I relax. Pick up my chair and sit back down. We stare at each other for a few long seconds. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Start by…” Dean’s eyes flash. “OK, I didn’t say a word. I’m listening.”

  “You didn’t wind up at our firm by chance. You didn’t want to apply, remember? Your mom had to insist. Of course, Ann and I had it planned out since your first day at college. That doesn’t make you any less skilled. Your father wanted me to watch out for you.”

  “You know why he walked out on us, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Not the details, but the big picture, yes. He left to protect your mother and you.”

  “Protect us? Protect us from what?”

  “Daniel saw some strange things during a test flight. You must have been five or six years old. He was the kind of guy who had to get to the bottom of things. He investigated and stuck his nose where he shouldn’t have. When he realized it, it was too late. We organized a change of identity and had him transferred over to us. Then the Agency placed Ann and you under protection.”

  “We? The Agency? I don’t get it.”

  “The CIA. I’ve been a government agent for thirty years. In charge of financial operations. The firm is my cover. In our jargon, I’m what’s called a nonoperational agent. Daniel joined the Agency to continue his investigation. I knew nothing about the details of the case. Then a month ago, your father resurfaced and gave me a package that he wanted me to hide away in Switzerland. Your mother gave you the key to that package today, when she found out Daniel was dead.”

  I don’t say a word. The information buzzes in my brain without taking shape, without having any meaning. Through the bar window, I watch cars glide past in the rain. Tires throw up rainbow-colored spray in the neon lights.

  “Daniel and Ann never stopped loving each other. And he never stopped loving you. The last time we met, he told me he’d been present at moments in your life without revealing he was there. You were the pride and tragedy of his life.”

  I return to reality. “Did he know about the accident?”

  “No. Nor did Ann. But you know that already.”

  “He chose an investigation over his own family.”

  “Were you listening to what I just said? It wasn’t an ordinary investigation. It was big. Daniel unsurfaced something from the past, and that made a lot of people nervous. Anyway, nothing’s simple at the Agency, and friends can be counted on one hand.”

  “Do the partners know about your other job?”

  “Some, yes. Most, no.”

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “It’s your call. You have the big picture. Right now your options are limited. Either you know enough, or you need to dig for more. I think I can guess which way you’re going to go.”

  Dean glances at his watch. “It’s midnight, and you’re not drunk. That’s encouraging.” His tone wasn’t mocking.

  “I don’t feel like drinking. Why are you telling me all this tonight? Why not before? Or never?”

  “Before? I’d promised not to. Never? That was the plan. But the situation’s changed.”

  “Daniel J. Corbin is dead.”

  “Yes. And that makes me immensely sad. But we have to concentrate on the living. I don’t understand why the army sent people to your apartment. Your dad was no longer Air Force, so they had no business even knowing about his death. You should not have been contacted.”

  “So?”

  “It means Daniel’s cover was blown. And that’s not good, Jeremy. Not good at all.”

  CHAPTER 8

  It’s one in the morning when Bernard drops me outside my building. The rain’s stopped. Pity. My head’s pounding, but I haven’t touched a drop of booze all evening. To celebrate I find myself caught up in something way over my head. Bernard’s big sedan roars away. He gestures with his hand. If he’s not waving goodbye, it means he’s either picking wax out of his ear, or he wants me to call him tomorrow. I will. I zip up my jacket all the way. I don’t want to sleep. I wander around the park, hands stuffed in my pockets. What a day! Crying helped. The shrink was right. Yelling and smashing are highly therapeutic. Now what? My father’s dead. From grade-A asshole, he’s achieved some kind of hero status. My mother knew and didn’t say a word for over twenty years, and now she hands me a Swiss safe-deposit box number and a key with a pretty little swastika on it hidden in a locket. My boss, the only guy that I can remotely call a friend, tells me he’s known me forever and works for the CIA. No doubt about it, one hell of a day. I ask myself again—what now?

  Bernard’s smart. He sensed curiosity overwhelming me. He knows I have no choice. I’m catching that plane to Switzerland to pick up the parcel my father left for me. I have to get to the bottom of this. Take a shaker. Add a shot of Air Force, a slug of CIA, two fingers of Switzerland and a twist of Nazi. That’s a cocktail I can’t resist. I have a passport, cash and time on my hands. I have no other appointments to keep. Leaving the country awhile won’t do me any harm. Bernard will go with me. I’d bet my life on it.

  I’m outside the Guggenheim. Some Japanese tourists are snapping pictures. You have to admit, a cylindrical building, only in New York. The tourists make me laugh. But I’m no better than them. I live a few blocks away, and I’ve never set foot in the place. There was a time when I liked art. There was a time.

  I double back. My bed’s calling. Strange, it’s the middle of the night, and I still don’t want a drink. On the other hand, I’m not about to quit smoking. I toss my now-empty second pack for the day in the trash and open up my third pack. I wonder about the big secret the old man stumbled across. What makes a man walk away from his family and vanish? My belly rumbles. I’m not thirsty, but I am hungry. I haven’t swallowed anything solid since yesterday. A sandwich and candy bar hit the spot. A smoke, food—life doesn’t seem so bad. It’s sad to say, but it’s taken my dad’s death for me to feel alive for the first time this whole damn year.

  Eytan Morg dropped his keys into the hotel valet’s palm. The guy stared in amazement. At the Four Seasons, a muddy pickup got a bigger reaction than a Ferrari. The giant smiled at the valet’s slack-jawed expression. Among the perks of his profession was a hefty expense account. Other agents stayed in sleazy motels and faked invoices to stash money away. He preferred to treat himself. Money would come and go. There were bigger things to worry about. And statistically, it was more likely that you’d be shot in a cheap dive downtown than in a five-star luxury hotel. Morg stopped in his tracks, dropping his green canvas sports bag on the floor at his feet. Hands on hips, he let out a long whistle that earned him some suspicious glances.

  Moody lighting, walls in shades of beige, huge red porcelain vases, marble floor. Classy! He had stopped beside a glass display case holding three diamond necklaces—the work of a French jeweler at the peak of his career. The prices were discreetly hidden. Another display showcased the talents of Swiss watchmakers. Morg scanned the pieces on offer with a connoisseur’s eye.

  A man in his forties and a three-piece suit came around the reception desk to intercept the intruder. He cleared his throat to interrupt the window shopping. “Perhaps I can help you, sir?” Morg adored obsequiousness. He peered down at the man, who was a good ten inches shorter.

  “Sir has a reservation. Sir is
awed by the beauty of the place. And sir’s name is Eytan.” He thrust out a virile hand and cracked a big smile. “And you are?”

  “Er, Friedkin. James Friedkin. I’m the night manager, sir.”

  “Tsk-tsk. Eytan.”

  “Yes. Eytan. Would you care to step to my desk to check in?”

  “With pleasure, James.”

  A few minutes and some fastidious formalities later, the night manager ushered his guest into a studio suite. Morg glanced appreciatively at the king-size bed and the living area separated from the sleeping area by a brown velvet couch. Above all, he was blown away by the floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unbeatable view of the Manhattan skyline.

  A bellhop, slightly awkward in his old-fashioned red uniform, arrived with a black case, which he handed to James before snapping to attention.

  “Sir, your assistant left this case for you yesterday,” James said to Morg. “As per your instructions, we kept it in the vault until you arrived.”

  “Fine, James. Thank you very much for your warm welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to…” He nodded toward the door.

  “Of course, sir…er, Eytan. Enjoy your stay. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.” In a flash, the two hotel employees were in the hallway, hundred-dollar bills in their hands. They chatted briefly about this strange but friendly guest before going back to their duties.

  Morg grabbed the case and settled down on the couch. No opening mechanism was visible. Another innovation from the guys at R&D. He positioned his thumbs on the sides of the handle and heard a slight click. The top half of the case swung up, revealing the precious contents. Morg reached for the two magazines first and slipped them into his jacket pockets. Then he took out a brown paper envelope, which held a tidy sum of cash, half American bills, half euros. He guessed it was at least twenty grand. Working for Mossad brought little thrills like this. A second envelope held a series of pictures of a blond guy with a buzz cut, the kind of player who’d spend more time in front of the bathroom mirror than in the library. The detailed description revealed that blondie was thirty-one and a financial whiz in a booming Wall Street firm. Bachelor, no kids. Unfortunately for him, he had no military training. Finally and most important, Morg looked at the assignment codes. Two applied to this Jeremy Corbin guy: 111a and 111b. The first, surveillance, was hardly surprising. It was the second that elicited a heavy sigh from Agent Morg. Grumbling, he drew his gun and checked the clip.