by Blake Banner
Fenninger sighed. “Yes, OK.”
There was another moment of silence. I heard the ice in Fenninger’s glass rattle and the soft clunk as he set it down on the desk again. I half expected the call to end at that point, but then Beta started speaking.
“There is something else. I met with Alpha last night.”
“Oh?”
“We are hampered by the loss of Gamma.”
Fenninger grunted. “We have lost two in a very short time.”
“I know, but we must keep going as best we can until a suitable candidate appears. We discussed the melt.”
Fenninger grunted. “I know we are set for a record this year. I have been talking to the NSIDC, it is set to be the biggest melt on record, greater even than 2012.”
Beta sighed. “Exactly, and here’s the thing. The immediate effect is that we are going to have a cold, wet summer and the president will capitalize on that to bolster his position on climate change…”
“Good.”
“However, the knock on is that early next year we will have severe drought in the Mediterranean, in East Africa, the Middle East, China and the prairie states. The people in Climate are saying it could be the beginning of the Event.”
“Holy shit… That soon…”
“You see where I am going with this, Epsilon?”
“I think so…”
“Don’t think, be sure. We’ll be going to war on the back of that drought. The Middle East will go to pieces, their regimes will crumble. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. This is where Syria pays off. We are going to march in: Syria, Saudi and Iran. The EU are going to kick. So are Russia and China. This will be the biggest test since World War Two. We need to control public thinking and behavior, Epsilon. Are you hearing me?”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Get your house in order. Find out who this guy is, and deal with him. We do not want another UN on our hands.”
“I understand, Beta. I’ll deal with it.”
“And, Epsilon?”
“What?”
“Grow a pair, will you? You’re like a fucking girl when you panic.”
I smiled. There was silence. Then the rattle of ice and the splash of liquid again, and after a moment the shattering of Waterford crystal. More silence followed by the muttering of voices and somebody sweeping up the tumbler he had smashed. The door closed and the bug in Ahmed’s office was activated.
“Hi, Aaron! that was quick. I just got in. Have you got some news for me?”
When he spoke there was no trace of the petulant tantrum that had made him smash his glass thirty seconds earlier. He was radiant with Californian sunshine and positive vibes.
“Yeah, listen, arrange the meeting. Talk to the others…”
“They’re due in a few minutes.”
“Good, make them understand, however tempting his offer may be, we do not want this guy onboard, OK? We are going to have to manage a drought and a war early next year…”
“Shit! Really?”
“That does not leave your office, OK? We’ll advise you on where to invest to capitalize. Keep your mouth shut and you could become very, very rich indeed. But you do not want to talk about this to anyone outside IIC.”
“We understand that, Aaron.”
“So my point is, Ahmed, we need you guys to manage the crisis when it comes, and we cannot have outside investors taking control.”
“Sure, that’s not a problem. I’ll talk to the guys. Where is the drought going to be?”
Aaron gave a small laugh. “Uh…parallel forty, north, right around the globe.”
“Jesus…”
“Yeah, East Africa, Middle East… You know, weather is a chaos model. It’s hard to be precise.”
“And the war?”
“Basically, the Middle East is going to hell.”
“I thought it was already there, Aaron.”
“Well, now you know. It isn’t. It’s just on the threshold.”
Ahmed was silent for a moment, then I heard the smile in his voice. “Don’t you forget to give me those pointers. We are going to clean up!”
Fenninger snorted again. “Play your cards right, Ahmed, and there might be all kinds of opportunities opening up for a man with no conscience.”
“Hey, Aaron, I am that man!”
They both laughed and hung up.
After that, I sat through Musa’s meeting with his partners. It was pretty much a reiteration of what I had already heard. The only thing that was new, and that interested me, was that Intelligent Imaging Consultants was fully engaged with Omega and Omega’s objectives.
From the comments they made, I gathered they did not know that Omega existed as an organization in its own right, and they were not aware of Omega’s long term plans. Their belief was that Aaron represented an anonymous department within the federal government, but with that caveat, they were on board with their plans and were not squeamish about using famine to justify war, just so long as they got the insider information to allow them to buy the right shares at the right time.
I closed the laptop, pulled a Camel from my pack and sat and smoked for a while, staring out at the broad, bright boulevard, considering my options. After a while I began to smile.
Six
The call came when I was on my way to Olympic Boulevard to see Ted Wallace late that afternoon. It was Ahmed. I took a moment to think of Joe Pesci and tried to talk like him.
“Ahmed, talk to me. Whatcha got for me? Make me a happy man.”
“Mr. Franklin, I can tell you that my partners were very interested in your proposition and we would very much like to talk to you in more depth and, um, put some flesh on the bones, so to speak.”
“Put some flesh on the bones, huh? What are we making, a horror movie?” He tried to laugh but failed and I kept on talking. “So when do you wanna meet? I gotta tell you, Ahmed, I know here in Cali you like to take things easy, but I’m not a big fan of fuckin’ around wasting my fucking time, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“Well, what about tomorrow afternoon…?”
“See? That’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about, mañana, mañana. We’re talking an initial investment of twenty million bucks with more to come if we’re all happy. But you gotta have your fuckin’ martinis, you gotta go down to Santa fuckin’ Monica and swim naked in the fuckin’ evening sunshine an’ screw a few whores, and then you gotta take your fuckin’ time over croissants and cappuccini in the morning before you can get your fuckin’ ass in gear to discuss business. And forgive me if I’m blunt, but let me ask you this, Ahmed, what the fuck is gonna happen between now and tomorrow that you can’t fuckin’ talk business to me tonight?”
“Well, Mr. Franklin, it has gone five o’clock…
“I have one thing to say to you, Ahmed: One of my most influential and affluent associates has flown in from Detroit and is waiting for me at the airport, because I assured him you would be keen to see proof of our intention to do business. He has come all the way here, for you. And he is going to be very disappointed at your lack of reciprocal enthusiasm. Two: I have done some of my own most lucrative business in the very small hours of the morning. And three, is there any reason why we cannot transact business in your office tonight?”
“Well, it’s…”
“I’m gonna tell you what I am going to do for you, because I do not want you and my principals to get off on a bad foot. Let me tell you that a bad foot is not a good thing to get off on. I don’t want to turn up at the airport and say, ‘Hey Jackie,’ we call him Jackie the Kid, he likes that. ‘Hey, Jackie, this uh, Ahmed, he didn’t mean no disrespect, but he had to go swimming with some whores in Santa Monica, or some shit. He’ll see you tomorrow…’ I don’t wanna do that. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do for you. You and me, we gonna meet tonight, with Jackie, at your office. We will discuss some preliminaries over a drink. Then maybe we go party, get some girls, snort some coke, know what I’m sayin’? We’ll have a good ti
me. That’s how he likes to do things. You will find him a very generous man. And as a thank you, maybe we can sort out a personal bonus for you. I’ll call you from the airport. Don’t disappoint me, Ahmed. OK?”
“No, listen, Mr…
“Don’t disappoint me, Ahmed.”
I hung up. He didn’t call back.
The sun was low, and the light bronzed, by the time I pulled into the parking lot opposite Archer’s Detective Agency, and left the truck among the lengthening shadows. I rode the old elevator to the fifth floor and found Ted alone. His secretary had gone home for the night and he was sitting with his feet on the desk smoking and drinking whiskey, like a real PI. He looked tired. I closed the door and accepted his invitation to sit and have a drink. I poured a shot and lit up a Camel.
“I’m hoping you’re going to tell me you have no news.”
“Not a thing.” He shrugged. “It might help if I knew what you were looking for, apart from whether he drives with his window open. It sure as hell isn’t your sister.”
I smiled. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
He narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not joking?”
I ignored the question. “We’re done with the surveillance. You can call your associate off. Consider the remainder of the fee a bonus.”
He frowned at his drink. “I told you I was a cop for a long time.”
“You did.”
“My instinct is telling me that there is something very wrong about this job.”
I nodded. “Your instinct is right. The reason I’m calling off the surveillance is because you and your associate are at risk if you continue.”
He stared at me for a long moment, then picked up the phone and made a call. When the call was answered he said, “We’re done. Get out of there. Make sure you’re not followed.” He hung up, then screwed up his face at me. “We are at risk, from Aaron Fenninger? That’s like being at risk from Gene Roddenberry, or George Lucas. It’s ridiculous. What’s this all about…” He waved a hand at me. “Mr. Smith? I don’t even know your name.”
I sighed. “What these things are always about, Ted: power. But believe me, you are better off not knowing the details.”
He gave a small laugh. “I think I’ll convince myself you were some kook on one of those reality games, like that movie, with Michael Douglas…”
“The Game.”
“That’s the one.”
I smiled. “Something like that. You got photos, film, papers, reports…?”
“Yeah. I thought we had a few more days…”
“It’s fine. I don’t need a report. I just need whatever you’ve got, and it’s best if you don’t keep any records.”
A look of understanding dawned on his face. “You’re government? CIA…?”
“Would it make a difference?”
He sighed. “Not really.
“Will an hour be long enough?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll go and grab something to eat. I’ll see you here at eight?”
He nodded. “OK, no problem.”
I walked two blocks to Il Mare, an Italian restaurant on Hope Street, and had a steak and a beer while turning over in my mind how I wanted everything to play out. The timing could be tricky, but with a little luck and a cool head, I might just pull it off. The thing to do in any complex operation is to think through all the things that can go wrong, and have a backup plan for each one of them. My problem was, right then, that there were so many things that could go wrong, for so many reasons, all I could do was improvise and play my own part to the best of my abilities.
And that meant leaving no trace of myself at Archer’s Detective Agency, so that even if they traced me there, they would not be able to trace me from there.
After dinner I had a small black coffee and paid the bill, then made my way back to Olympic Boulevard. I rode the elevator back to the fifth floor and, when I came out, I found the outer door to the agency open. I stepped inside but there was nobody in the outer office. I listened at his door, but there was only silence.
He might have stepped out to get some dinner. Or he might not.
I pulled my Sig from my waistband, stood to the side of the door and tried the handle. The door swung open. Nothing else happened. I held my weapon at arm’s length in both hands and went in. The room was clear and Ted was sitting at his desk. He looked scared. He wasn’t scared. He didn’t feel anything anymore. Because he was dead. The back of his head was all over the back of his chair. But the last emotion he had felt had been fear, which was a shame, because I had the impression that Ted Wallace had been a good man. He’d deserved a better death.
His left hand was gripping the arm of his chair so tight his fingers had gone through the black vinyl imitation leather. His right hand was still on the desk, and two of his fingers were sticking up at grotesque angles. I sighed. That could mean only one thing, that they had waited outside for me to return, and they would be coming in at any moment.
Right on cue I heard the voice behind me. “Put the gun down, put your hands on your head and turn around so I can see your face.”
I laid my Sig on the desk in front of me, put my hands up and turned to face him. There were only two of them. They had closed the outer door on their way in, and now the one who wasn’t pointing a gun at me was closing the door to the inner office. I inferred from that that they planed to kill me or torture me or both.
I had a look at the guy who was holding a gun. He was gym fit, with muscles fed by powdered protein, but rarely bruised in combat. He had long blond hair tied in a ponytail, he was smiling and holding a Glock 19. They always drive dark blue Audis and they always carry Glock 19s. It’s a universal law or something.
I looked at his friend who had closed the door and was now holding a Taurus Judge 45 revolver, which can fire .45 rounds or shot, like a shot gun. That’s what they buy when they can’t afford a Glock. He was bald, with a tattooed scalp and a face like the expression of a one kilobyte brain. His mouth hung slightly open because his neurons were engaged in blinking.
I looked back at the smart one. “Now you’ve seen my face. Who sent you?”
“How about I ask the questions, smart ass?”
“Why did you torture him?”
“Hey! Shut the fuck up. I’ll ask the questions. What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know? What the hell is going on here? I turn up for an appointment and I find…”
“Shut the fuck up! Answer the fucking question!”
I took a step closer, appealing to him with my face. “Please don’t get violent. I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’m just confused and a little frightened…”
“Start talking, man!”
“My name is Benjamin.”
“Benjamin what?”
“Dover.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Benjamin Dover? Ben Dover? Seriously?”
“Yeah, and my wife is Eileen. Why are you here? Who sent you?”
He flushed crimson. He was getting real mad. All he wanted in life was for people to fear and respect him, and I had made a joke at his expense. So he thrust the barrel of his Glock in my face like a prosthetic dick and screamed at me. “I’m asking the fucking questions, asshole! Who’s got the fucking gun here?”
I smacked his wrist hard with my right hand, gripped the barrel of the automatic with my left and levered the grip out of his fingers. The muzzle was now facing him, but as I slipped my right finger onto the trigger I shifted slightly and shot Mr. Kilobyte through the eye. His mouth was still open as he folded gently to the floor. He probably didn’t even know he was dead.
I took a step back with the weapon trained on the guy with the pony tail. He was blinking furiously, like each blink was expressing a “But…” in his brain.
I said, “I am.”
He screwed up his face again. “What?”
“You asked me who was holding the gun. I am. S
it.”
I picked up my Sig from the desk, then, as he sat, I stood between him and his dead pal. I said, “You’re not a pro. You’ve got no bruises. You haven’t even got a broken nose. You have no tolerance for pain. I’m going to tie you to the chair with shoelaces. Then I’m going to stuff your pal’s socks in your mouth to muffle your screams, and I’m going to cut your fingers off one by one with this…”
I pulled the Fairbairn & Sykes from my boot. He looked very pale and sickly. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I’ll know if you’re lying. If you lie I will take all the digits from your right hand, just to show you that I mean business. This is an ugly game, pal. You are not up to it. If you live through this ordeal, take my advice, take up landscape gardening. Now, who sent you here?”
He was sweating profusely and his hands were shaking. “It’s a guy. He knows where we hang out. He gives us jobs sometimes.”
I gave a small laugh. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, pal, if you want to step out of here alive. Or even intact.”
“No, wait, I’m getting to it. He works, unofficially, for a security company that takes care of celebrities, millionaires, you know the kind of thing. He said this PI had been snooping on some dude’s house in Malibu, he wanted to know who his client was. Told me to find out what I could, then…” He trailed off.
“Then what?”
“It was just the job man, it wasn’t personal.”
“Then what?”
“Then he said to… to take you out. I’m sorry, it wasn’t me…”
“What about proof of kill?”
“A photograph.”
“I’m guessing he’s not stupid enough to have you send it to his phone.”
“No, man. We meet, at the bar where we hang. Late, like twelve or one AM.”