There was a coffee shop on the corner, a hundred and fifty yards from Peter’s building, that had free wireless service, which Alan intended to take advantage of while he waited for Peter to leave for the day. Perhaps he could get more information on the older man. Peter’s brief dossier hadn’t contained anything about his parents – the father was unknown, mother deceased, never married. But Ryker had made a big deal about his father being a power player in D.C., so he would follow that lead through to the end.
Whatever was going on here, Iran factored heavily, and Alan had grown to believe that factions close to, or in, the government had mounted the unsuccessful false-flag bio-attack as a justification for an Iranian invasion. But he needed to know more before he understood what he was up against. Right now all he had were questions.
Peter finished his drink and stood somewhat unsteadily, then pushed through the busy restaurant to the front door. Alan waited a few moments until his quarry was out on the street and then followed him, his car parked only a few stalls away from Peter’s expensive BMW.
Alan kept a safe distance as Peter’s car wove through traffic, cheerfully ignoring the speed limit as well as the rights of his fellow drivers. It had been the same on the way to the restaurant, so Alan was expecting it and didn’t take it as an attempt to be evasive. The man was just a complete prick on the road. Alan suspected the same was true in person.
At the café, he ordered a cappuccino and powered on the computer he’d bought in L.A., then sent the photo to one of his blind email accounts. A few moments later he was on the Mossad servers, uploading the shot and waiting for the powerful facial recognition software to work its magic. He took a gulp of the frothy confection, and then the little window on his computer blinked at him. He navigated to the dossier that was linked to the image with ninety-eight percent certainty and opened it. The cup of coffee froze mid-way to his lips as he read.
The older man was the Deputy Chief of Staff to the President of the United States, and one of the most influential political strategists in the country. His was a household name, even if his image was virtually unknown – he shunned the limelight and avoided publicity at all costs.
And apparently, judging by their body language over lunch, he was connected to Peter in a big way. A paternal way. As he studied the man’s image, he could see a definite resemblance, now that he was looking for it.
Peter was a bastard on the road, all right, but that wasn’t the only place.
Alan would bet anything that the older man was Peter’s father.
Chapter 32
When Jet got back to the hotel, Alan was waiting for her, a grim expression on his handsome face. She dropped her backpack on the table and tumbled onto the king-sized bed, exhausted. Alan switched off the television and joined her, resting his head on one hand as he lay on his side, supported by his elbow.
“So tell me everything you couldn’t on the phone,” Jet said with a weary tone.
“I got to Ryker. He was definitely part of something big. And ugly.” Alan then told her all about Peter, his company, his involvement in hunting for Alan, and then saved the best for last.
“I followed him today. He had a lunch meeting. With Dad. This is way, way bigger than anything I could have guessed.”
“Come on. Don’t hold out. The suspense is killing me.”
“Dad is one of the top men in Washington. To call him influential would be to call a hurricane a little bit of rain. The man’s legendary. Has advised numerous presidents. The rumors are that he’s more powerful than the entire government apparatus combined. He’s way too big to take on, and I’m not even sure it would do any good. If he’s behind the terrorist strike, then we’re hosed. As is Iran, unless they can pull a rabbit out of the hat.”
Jet closed her eyes for a few seconds, then fixed him with an unwavering gaze. “Okay, then you have to cut off his operational legs. Which would appear to be his son. Dad connives, and Peter implements. Maybe you can’t kill the beast, but you can sure as hell cut the field guy’s head off.”
“A succinct summary. I got to the same place earlier. Now the question is, how to take him down without getting caught?”
“Same way we worked it in Russia. We have two discrete operations here. The first is Arthur. The second is Peter. We concentrate on the larger problem first, like we did with your Yemen issue, and then we go to the second objective – Peter. I’ll help you. That goes without saying. But I think we want this to look like anything but a sanction, which is where the art will come in.”
“You’re reading my mind.”
“Let me put my thinking cap on. Where there’s a will…”
“How are you feeling, otherwise? You look beat. Hot as hell, but beat.”
“I am, Alan. I need about six hours of sleep to get back on my game. I’m one step above a zombie right now.”
He rolled off the bed, her message clear, and rose. “I’m headed out to watch Arthur’s place. See if Doctor Evil has any chinks in his armor. When I get back, you can take over. You said six hours?”
“Yup. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. Anything I should know?”
She filled him in on the finer points of her surveillance and the conclusions she’d drawn so far. He listened intently, then nodded.
“All right. I’ll change into something more comfortable that won’t draw attention and get over to the park. You have binocs?”
She opened her backpack and handed them to him. “Thank you, Alan. I’ll call you when I wake up, or you can call me…in at least six hours. We’ll figure out what else to do from there.”
“Okay. Sleep well. I’ll just be a second.”
Alan changed out of his button-up shirt and jeans and pulled on a pair of black sweats and a black hoodie he’d bought in L.A., then switched off the lights.
“Goodnight,” he said, then slipped out the motel room door, closing it softly behind him.
Jet forced herself up and padded to the bathroom. Reaching into the shower, she twisted the knob and stripped while she waited for the hot water to hit. She rinsed off mechanically, her eyes closed most of the time, and then pulled on some fresh panties and a T-shirt and threw herself onto the bed, her need to rest overriding all other concerns.
Her dreams were troubled. In them, Arthur’s scarred face leered malevolently at her as his fingers turned into straight-edged razors and he chased her through a dark maze. Every time she would get close to finding her way out, the labyrinth would change shape and she’d be right back where she started, his twisted grimace the embodiment of evil.
She tossed and turned as variations of the nightmare intruded, and then it changed.
In it, Alan walked down the street, whistling, somewhere in South America, the local color and smells so vivid she felt like she was there with him. He turned a corner on the busy street, and then was suddenly on an empty boulevard, a harsh, cold wind blowing his hair back and making him squint. A baby carriage rolled of its own volition from a doorway and then exploded, shattering the nearby storefronts and shredding him into an unrecognizable carcass.
Somehow in the dream she hovered above him. Something barely distinguishable as an eye looked up at her from the bloody gore, and then the savaged flesh parted and a cloud of black wasps flew from where Alan’s mouth would have been, racing directly towards her.
Just as the stinging began, the pain paralyzing, Hannah’s voice cried from a second baby carriage rolling towards her. Arthur’s tortured profile grinned at her from the darkness of the alley from which it came.
“Mama! Help me!” Hannah screamed, and then the entire dream exploded in a red-orange blast.
Jet bolted awake, her heart racing, her shirt drenched through with sweat, and looked around the room, taking a moment to register where she was. She looked at her watch and calculated that she’d slept a total of four hours so far – not enough, but she was doubtful she’d be able to get any more rest.
She forced herself to lie back
down and pulled the covers up, then closed her eyes again, reassuring herself that it was just a dream.
As she dozed, the troubling images faded, and the remaining two hours of slumber were blissfully untroubled, other than a faint background buzz of anxiety, a remnant from the earlier dream or perhaps her time in the park, when she’d been unable to shake the odd feeling of being watched.
~ ~ ~
Standish invited the two men into the house and showed them to the living room, where he usually met with those not specifically invited to Arthur’s bedroom suite. Both wore extremely expensive hand-tailored suits and were in their mid-forties. They took seats on the sofa and Standish sat on a loveseat, facing them.
“May I get you anything to drink? Water? Soda? A cocktail?”
The thinner of the two, his balding pate sweating in spite of the mild temperature, leaned forward, his fingers clasped together, and stared at Standish with in impassive gaze.
“Why aren’t we meeting with Arthur? We flew in specifically for this.”
“Yes, I know, and I appreciate it. Arthur asked me to conduct the meeting. He’s not feeling well today. He has his good days, and his…well, his not-so-good ones. As do we all,” Standish explained.
“We don’t talk to go-betweens,” the other man snapped.
“Nor do I. Speaking with me is the same as speaking with Arthur. If you recall, I handled the last three meetings with you, and did most of the talking. So if we can dispense with the protestations, perhaps you’d like to get down to business?” Standish leaned back and studied both men. “The attacks are ongoing, and Papua is in chaos. We knocked out the mine, and the Indonesians have not responded particularly well to the crisis. And now, it looks like the Free Papua movement is gaining a credible shot at independence. If that happens, then I think we can guarantee that the mine will be nationalized and your target will be permanently out of luck.”
Neither of the men responded.
“I’ve been tracking the share price of the company that owns the mine. It’s down thirty-eight percent since this started, and every day it drops another few percent. I think it’s safe to say that your wise investment in our services has paid for itself many times over by now. Your short position in the stock must have gone through the roof, as have the put options you’ve been buying, not to mention the credit default swaps.”
“How do you know about the CDS pricing?” the bald man demanded.
“Do you take us for fools? Arthur’s been doing this sort of thing a long time, and you’re lucky he agreed to help you. He has me tracking everything for him. If you were aggressive, just your CDS positions alone would have made your hedge funds billions. And the play isn’t over. But Arthur isn’t greedy. He appreciates your prompt payment of the hundred million. The question is, what’s your end goal here? Because he’s interested in being involved in that, as well.”
The pair exchanged glances, and then the bald man spoke up. “He’s been dabbling in the CDS market himself. There were some suspicious purchases at the time we were taking our positions. Just so you know that we know.”
“Of course he was. Do you think he couldn’t figure this out the moment he agreed to your request? Surely you can’t object to him taking a position. That way he’s right in the trenches alongside of you, and shares your objective. I would have thought you would be delighted in this vote of confidence. Besides, he’s done everything you asked. Am I missing something?” Standish asked.
“You’re not missing anything. He must have made at least another couple of hundred million from his buys.”
“I don’t discuss his financial affairs, but he’s very happy with how the positions have performed. But he would like to understand where you wish to go from here. His ability to impact circumstances over there is now reduced. Whether or not Indonesia bows to international pressure and grants Papua independence is out of his hands.”
The heavier man sighed heavily. “We’ve assembled a leveraged buyout group that will make a tender offer for the company if independence goes through. We figure we can buy it for pennies on the dollar once news of the nationalization hits. That would be disastrous for the company, even though it has other properties it’s mining. Obviously its management won’t know that we’ve got a deal to co-manage the mine with the new government. We’ll save that little tidbit until after we’ve acquired the company.”
“That’s what he thought you were going to do. He asked me to relay how interested he would be in participating in the buyout. Perhaps…a ten percent stake? Something manageable?” Standish asked, not so much questioning as suggesting.
“We’ll have to see. That’s a big piece. Even with some creative financing, we could be talking about him having to come up with half a billion in order to play. Does he have that kind of juice?” the bald man asked, the discussion having veered into an unexpected direction – one that he was at home with.
“That’s in the range he was prepared to allocate to this. I really think you should consider how valuable it would be to have him participate. There are worse people to have on your side. As the results in Papua should tell you.”
The bald man’s eyes narrowed. “And what about you? What do you get out of this?”
“That’s really not anything I can discuss. Suffice it to say that I’m being compensated adequately.” Standish had no interest in telling the men that he was seeing a reasonable chunk of the upside. They could infer what they liked. “I was directed to either solidify a deal here, or he would consider his involvement in Papua concluded, as per your agreement. Please take your time, but I will need to go upstairs at the end of this meeting, and tell him…what’s the phrase? Deal or no deal?” The traces of a smile flashed across his face.
The men conferred in hushed tones, and then seemed to come to an agreement.
“Fine. You’re in for ten percent. But the drawdown will be very fast, and if for any reason he can’t perform on demand, his piece will go to someone who can,” the bald man cautioned.
They spent another few minutes discussing the deal, and then the two men stood.
“We’ll get you a partnership agreement by courier tomorrow,” the bald man said, shaking Standish’s hand.
“At your leisure. Arthur and I know your word is your bond. I’m sure you wouldn’t disappoint him. You’ve seen what he can achieve. Really miraculous, if you think about it. And you’re completely insulated,” Standish replied, shaking the other man’s hand.
He showed them to the door and watched as their limo rolled down the drive, taking them back to the airport and their Gulfstream jets. His little gambit had just ensured Arthur would quadruple his money, for which Standish would be handsomely rewarded.
Standing on the porch, he shielded his eyes with his hand and looked up at the sky, where a few clouds were gathering. All in all it was a good day. Arthur would be happy.
And if Arthur was happy, Standish was happy.
Chapter 33
“Can you be back here to relieve me at four A.M.?” Jet whispered in the dark, watching the house with the binoculars.
“Sure. That will give me six hours of shut-eye. More than enough,” Alan agreed.
“In which case I can relieve you again at ten tomorrow morning. I think the six-hour shift is the best way to go.”
“Agreed. So what do you think about my plan? With Peter?” he asked.
Alan had filled her in on what he had come up with. Peter would die in a burglary, or commit suicide. How was academic. Alan had a number of possible ways to get to him.
“I like it, but I’m concerned about the timing. We need to take Arthur down first.”
“No question. And then Peter meets his unfortunate end, and the threat to me is effectively neutralized. Without his son to run his dirty tricks, his father will be scrambling. If he could have used someone else, he would have.”
“I agree. In principle,” Jet said. “Let me do a little nosing around in the servers tomorrow morning while you
’re out here and see what I can come up with. We’ll have to do this very, very carefully. And that means no flying by the seat of our pants.”
“See you in six hours, then. You need anything?”
“Nope. I’m good.”
Alan crawled from his position beside her and then jogged off into the darkness, leaving her to her thoughts. She understood why Alan was focused on terminating Peter – simple self-preservation – but she wasn’t sure that he really had to. Alan was dead to the world, so it almost smacked a bit to her of vengeance – a reckoning. Eye for an eye.
There was so much she didn’t know about Alan. Would he expose himself to further risk just to even some score only he was keeping track of? Whatever the case, she would help him. But she didn’t like operating without all the information, and she felt like Alan was holding back. What it was, she didn’t know. But she didn’t like it. What you didn’t know could get you killed.
An owl hooted in the trees overhead, startling her, and then she relaxed. Her nerves were still on edge from the residual impression of the dream.
Snap out of it, she thought. Find a weakness in Arthur’s defenses. Something exploitable that would enable them to gain entry. Because as it currently stood, she didn’t see much to get excited about. The airspace around Washington was tightly monitored, for obvious reasons, so a parachute drop wouldn’t work – which would have been her preferred tactic if this had been most other places in the world. Drop in, slip into the house, eliminate any threats, terminate Arthur, and then slip out in the ensuing pandemonium after setting off some flash bangs to cover her escape.
But that wasn’t to be.
So they would have to figure out another way. The problem being that, at least as of now, there was no obvious way in that wouldn’t get her killed.
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 22