The envelope was barely large enough to contain all of the printed code, and it took a little coaxing to get the flap to seal properly.
He tossed the fattened envelope and roll of tape into his gym bag, where it mingled with a change of clothes. He retrieved his keys on his way out the apartment, and opted to run down the eleven flights of stairs to street level. The physical activity would channel his nervous energy, and it would be faster than the elevator.
When he reached the front door of the building, he continued on foot. Driving at this time of day wouldn’t save any time, and his destination was just a few blocks away.
Vaneesh entered the large, nondescript industrial building from an open garage door. Loud music blared through giant speakers at either end of the warehouse. The floor was covered in horse stall padding, and the interior walls were lined with pull-up bars, barbells, and rubber weight plates like Olympic lifters used.
A dozen people milled about in various stages of breathless exhaustion, having just finished their workout. He waved at a few of the familiar faces, and shook a hand or two as he made his way to the back of the gym.
He opened the door to what passed as a locker room. It was really just a storage room with a wall full of small lockers. There was no shower, no sink, and almost no privacy, but no one minded. It was a high-intensity, low-maintenance crowd.
The room was empty of other gym patrons at the moment. Vaneesh turned the lock as he shut the door behind him.
Twenty-one, fifteen, and nine was the repetition scheme for the workout, detailed in the comment posted by “whiteyfitness342” just a little over an hour ago. Vaneesh added the numbers together to get forty-five.
Vaneesh found locker number 45. It was padlocked shut. He spun the padlock, used 21-15-9 as the combination, and gave the padlock a tug. He breathed a sigh of relief when it yielded.
He removed the thick envelope from his gym bag. Using the clear tape he had brought along, he affixed the envelope to the top of the small locker. He wiped the tape clear of his fingerprints using the sweat towel he kept in his gym bag, then closed the locker door.
He fastened the lock and spun the dial, then wiped the locker and lock with his towel.
He shoved his own gym bag into another locker, then left the small locker room to begin his warm-up.
It was going to be a rough workout, but the hard part of his day was finished.
He felt himself relax. Done and done, he thought.
26
Alexandria, VA. Friday, 4:58 p.m. ET.
Sam stood naked, phone pressed to her ear, as Brock lounged on the bed next to her. He bit her waist playfully, and she ran her hand through his hair.
“Thanks, Big-A. I appreciate the update. That’s all very interesting, and I’d like to stop by on Monday if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Sam said.
Brock’s hands wandered. She smiled, enjoying the distraction.
“Nine it is—see you then.” She tossed the phone back onto the carpet, where it had fallen during their rapid undressing.
“’Big-A’? Should I be concerned about this new acquaintance of yours?”
She laughed at his teasing, and laid back down next to him.
The call had come while they were locked in a sweaty love knot, and she hadn’t batted an eye. “Don’t you dare stop,” she’d said.
He had obliged eagerly. “That’s why they invented voicemail.”
Like many so-called power couples, Sam and Brock talked a fair bit of shop at home. Both held top-secret security clearances, but they were careful not to discuss classified information over dinner. The Man was serious about that stuff, and issued jail time liberally for seemingly minor infractions.
But they had developed a kind of shorthand over the years that allowed them to skirt the edges of sensitive information.
“Big-A is a strapping fellow. Maybe you should duel for my favors.” She kissed his neck. “Lucky for you though, he’s not my type. He only talks to me about dead people. Serious turnoff.”
“The priest or the politician?” Brock knew she was following a couple of recent murders that shared some interesting similarities. “And what’s with the throat-slitting all of the sudden? Why don’t people just shoot each other like civilized thugs?”
“Seriously. What’s wrong with people?” She bit his ear. “That was about the politician’s driver. Looks like the senator slithered away before the goons could finish him off. Not that I wish him any harm, but he’s no choirboy.”
She rolled over and propped her head up on her hand. “Anyway, it looks like there’s an interesting overseas angle. Maybe we can wrangle a trip to London out of it.”
“I’m game. I’d be happy to drag your bags and follow you around London.”
“Is this a vacation we’re talking about?” Sam asked, mock incredulity on her face.
“If I didn’t know better,” Brock said, “I’d say it was.”
27
Somewhere on the East Coast. Friday, 5:03 p.m. ET.
Thierrot opened his eyes. They refused to focus. There was brightness off to his right, and he still felt the bothersome coldness.
He still heard beeping, too. It was steady and not too loud, but he discovered his annoyance growing. It marked the time, slow and inexorable, and the piercing tone seemed to reverberate inside his skull despite his attempts to ignore it.
He realized that he was lying on his back, and he became aware of uncomfortable pressure on his lower back, which he injured years ago in a chase with a fleeing criminal.
He tried to roll over on his side, but was unable to do so. He pulled his right arm upward, but it wouldn’t move.
He tried to look at his arms to figure out what was wrong with them, but his head wouldn’t budge either.
Panic set in instantly. His breathing became rapid and shallow, his heart raced, and he thrashed, trying to free himself. He felt the skin chafe on his arms, legs, and forearms.
He was strapped down onto the bed, completely unable to move.
He screamed, but his voice sounded muffled and distant. Panicked, he fought harder, and was rewarded with more painful abrasion against his skin.
His muscles cramped with exertion, and the skin around his restraints began to bleed. Sharp, stinging pain punished his every move.
He was utterly helpless. Wetness trickled down his temples and into his hair, and he realized that he was sobbing.
28
Somewhere over the Midwest. Friday, 5:22 p.m. ET.
The lone flight attendant on the Gulfstream bizjet stopped by Protégé’s fully reclined seat in the aft of the cabin.
A half-dozen feet ahead of him, Archive slept peacefully. Shades drawn, the cabin was dark, with only a few dim safety lights guiding the way to the exits.
The flight attendant set the fresh drink into its spot on the table adjacent to Protégé’s seat.
Then she grabbed his hand and placed it inside her skirt, on her ass. He felt nothing but skin beneath his hand, and he was instantly aroused.
He was also alarmed, but she held his hand fast.
She bent over and grabbed his earlobe playfully with her teeth. “The boss will be asleep until we land. Will you keep me company?”
He looked at her for a long moment, incredulous.
She kissed him before he could answer. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and her hand slipped beneath his blanket to find the growing bulge in his pants. His heart pounded. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
He had obviously noticed her—Allison was her name—as he boarded the flight out west with Archive, and he had tried not to be too overt about the way he watched her prepare the cabin for takeoff.
But she was drop-dead gorgeous, he was extremely single, and it had been a long time since he had been with a woman. Work had consumed too much of his attention lately, and he found himself fantasizing about her repeatedly as the flight progressed.
They had flirted a bit, but he was no player, and
she had smiled at his shyness.
Evidently, she wasn’t shy.
Before he knew it, she had his pants unzipped. Then she put a condom on him. This is really happening, he thought to himself.
It really was. She blew his mind.
Afterwards, he was still incredulous. “Did that just happen?”
“Yes, but no thanks to you, shy boy. Good thing I’m not afraid to take matters into my own hands.”
“I have no idea what to say to that. I’d never imagined anything like this ever happening to me.”
She gave him a long, wet kiss. “Give yourself a little more credit. I had inappropriate thoughts the moment I saw you. And I don’t believe for a second that you’re out of practice.”
“I suppose it’s officially OK if I ask for your phone number?”
“You’d better. I want to know how to get a hold of you when I want more of all of this.”
They heard Archive stir several feet in front of them. Protégé jumped, nearly knocking her off his lap.
He caught her as the old man resumed his snoring, and they laughed at nearly being discovered.
She climbed off of him, straightening her skirt. “Rest up,” she said with a smile. “We still have plenty of time before we get to Aspen.”
29
VA Hospital, Washington, DC. Friday, 5:27 p.m. ET.
“You’re obviously upset, Senator.” Special Agent Alfonse Archer, FBI, sat in the chair next to the senator’s hospital bed. “I want to take as little of your time as possible, but I do have a job to do. Your help will be instrumental in catching whoever did this to Sergio.”
Frank Higgs had just recently awakened from surgery. The bullet had shattered as it ricocheted off the elevator doorway, and several of the pieces had found their way into Higgs’s shoulder. The surgeons had removed the shrapnel without complication.
“I’m not sure how many times I’m going to be required to repeat the same information, is all,” Higgs said.
“I understand, sir,” Archer said. “It can be frustrating. But your descriptions are helping me form a picture of what happened.”
Actually, I want to know why the hell you’re lying to me, Archer thought to himself. The senator’s story didn’t match the physical evidence at the scene. Archer thought he might have an idea why.
Archer watched the senator’s eyes carefully. “Now,” he said, “can you talk me through what happened after the two of you got back in the elevator?”
Higgs blinked.
Gotcha.
Higgs looked away. Archer noticed a blush settling on the man’s cheeks. “I would be more than happy to repeat that part of my riveting little tale for a third time,” Higgs said, “but you’re going to have to reschedule. I’m afraid I’m done talking to you right now.”
Archer smiled. “That won’t be a problem. I think we’ll be able to find some time on your calendar, because I think I’ll just clear your schedule for the foreseeable future. You’re lying to me, and it won’t be hard to score a warrant, even for a man of your notoriety.”
Higgs’s jaw clenched. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, flatfoot.”
Archer laughed. “I think I do, Senator. You don’t need a PhD in law enforcement to tell the difference between .45-caliber and 10mm shell casings. We found both in your elevator. Either you were packing heat, or there were three of you. Which is it?”
Higgs let out a long breath.
Archer looked at him for a long moment, letting things marinate. He finally spoke. “I think you’ll agree that I’ve been more than a little patient with you, Senator Higgs. While I’d rather not, I’m certainly not afraid to kick up a shit storm. You and I can talk like the grownups we’re supposed to be, or I can use some of the less-discreet methods available to me. Headlines don’t bother me a bit. Your call.”
A long sigh. Higgs gazed out the window, shaking his head slowly. “OK,” he finally said. He looked weary and very old. “But later, when you’re eyeballs deep in blowback, remember that you asked for this.”
30
Aspen, CO. Friday, 4:52 p.m. MT.
“Yep. Two used condoms with plenty of DNA to prove it, and his digits in my phone.” Allison the flight attendant had just seen Protégé off with a surreptitious pinch and a wink as he climbed into Archive’s waiting limousine at the Aspen airport.
She stood outside the small private terminal, huddling against the chilly late summer mountain breeze, phone pressed to her ear. “No way. Cash only. I was clear about that from the beginning.”
The man on the other end of the line was agitated, but Allison didn’t care. A deal was a deal.
She listened for a while longer. “I expect to see our man for oysters on the half shell at the Aspen café. No games. If his wallet is even a little bit light, it’s over. And tell him he’d better not be late. I’m starving.”
She put her phone in her purse. Might have been a little tough on the poor little Middle Eastern man, she thought as she grabbed her bag and made her way to the parking lot. But he deserved it.
Protégé tried to shake thoughts of the random and mind-blowing sex with the dark-haired, blue-eyed bombshell of a flight attendant out of his mind.
He watched the sun creep toward the horizon out his window. The limousine wound its way through the Colorado Rockies, heading northwest just outside of Snowmass.
In the seat next to him, Archive wound his way toward the point of his monologue. “So fiat currency solves the problem of facilitating liquid transactions, but it’s a horrible repository of value. There’s the rub.”
Protégé wasn’t much in the mood for philosophy, economics, or anything else the old man might care to prattle on about.
But he didn’t want to put his benefactor off, either. He decided to play along. “Inflation, I suppose?”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, but not in the context you’re thinking. You’ve been told that the inflation index has held roughly steady at three percent per year over the past several decades. That’s not a lie, but the inflation index is deceptive. It’s a political tool, and it doesn’t measure the actual cost of living.”
“I’m still not following the Fed connection you mentioned earlier,” Protégé said.
“Think about it. If you want to redistribute wealth on a massive scale within your own country, there are really only a couple of ways to go about it. One way is to displace people from their homes and confiscate their possessions. It’s worked for everyone from Stalin to the African warlords, but it’s a bit unsavory, and it’s certainly not in harmony with the American myth.
“But there’s a slower, less violent option,” Archive continued. “Debt. Clarence Cubicle sits in his chair forty hours a week because he has a mortgage and a car payment. He trades his life energy to service the debt on his possessions.”
“You shouldn’t spend more than you earn. I don’t see the systemic connection.” Protégé gazed out the window and noticed that thoughts of the stewardess were receding as his mind began to gnaw on the old man’s words.
“Solid advice. But here’s the problem: when’s the last time you could pay cash for a home you would care to live in? You’re not yet independently wealthy, so my guess is never. Am I wrong?”
Protégé thought a moment. “I don’t know anyone who paid cash for their home.”
“My point exactly. Homes are too expensive for normal people to buy without financing. The rampant availability of financing has driven home prices well beyond their true economic value.”
Archive’s passion was obvious to Protégé even in the darkness of the limousine. “That’s called a bubble,” the old man went on. “Yes, there was a recent correction, so people think the worst has passed. Unfortunately, everyone mistook the foreshock for the earthquake, which is most assuredly still on the way.”
“You’re not just talking about the real estate market, are you?” Protégé asked.
“Home prices are a symptom, not the problem
. The excess availability of cash, made possible by the Federal Reserve System, has turned the entire world economy into a bubble.”
Archive paused for effect, toyed idly with his goatee, then continued. “Every major economy in the world is massively exposed to the dollar. And today’s dollar represents one-twentieth of the value it represented a century ago. The unprecedented influx of newly minted dollars means that the currency is losing its value faster than ever.”
“Hmm. Equity seems the obvious inflation hedge.” Protégé was now fully engaged, beginning to feel concerned about his own investment portfolio.
“Certainly. But who truly has equity? Only those who own capital assets outright. You may call your ten-percent share of your own Stafford McMansion ‘equity . . .’”
Protégé’s eyes snapped to the old man’s face. How the hell does how know that?
Archive noticed the look. “Don’t be dismayed. My reputation for extremely thorough vetting isn’t undeserved. As I was saying, you may think you own a slice of your own home, but do you really own that slice? If the value of your home falls, guess who shoulders the first ten percent of the risk? It certainly isn’t the bank. And ask yourself how much of that equity the bank will let you keep if you suddenly stop making your payments.”
Protégé let out a deep breath. “Sure, but everyone’s in roughly the same boat.”
Archive clucked. “Not exactly everyone. For instance, you probably didn’t know this, but I am the majority shareholder in the bank that wrote your mortgage.”
Protégé’s look was intense and suspicious.
The old man smiled reassuringly before continuing. “Unlike most bankers, I demand that my bank services the loans it writes, but that’s beside the point. Regardless of who services your loan, you don’t own your house. In this case, I actually own your house, and thousands more like yours, and you pay me every month for the right to live in it. Does that feel like an arrangement that’s in your best interest?”
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 122