by Rowley, M C
"Did they pass on any message for me?" I asked.
Lena´s head turned to face me. She had round green eyes and a short red bob. She was often smiling in the office, but now she looked thunderous.
"For you?" she said. “No.”
“Are you sure?“ I asked.
“Yes,” she said, turning her head back to look forward. "They don´t tell me anything. But you´re still missing stuff. Whatever they promised you, you´d hope to get it once the whole thing is complete."
“They promised me something in return for this,” I said.
“Join the club,” she said.
I went to ask another question but her window closed, and the Mercedes´ engine revved and moved forward, just enough for me to move my feet back, then drove forward and left me standing there, alone.
The nightmare had started nine months ago. Dread and hope all wrapped into one.
What had appeared to be a standard meeting with a new supplier had turned out to be blackmail, an extortion of sorts.
They had told me I had a new employer, and I would do whatever he asked of me.
They had told me what would happen if I refused.
It would be a simple deal, they had said.
I steal information for the employer.
In return, he tells me the truth.
The truth about what happened to our son.
Chapter Two
The highway was quiet and with the first steal done, my nerves began to calm and the tension in my neck subsided. I thought of Eleanor, and how happy she´d be once this was over. Her smile, the shock of it all. Her reaction. I shuffled in my seat. Not long now, I thought.
But the calm didn´t last. Blue and red light flashed like an old camera into my rearview, and the quiet night was cut open by a siren.
My heart thumped its warning, the tension in my neck returning. The last thing I needed was a police record reporting me as being in this area, at this time of night, this far from my house. If I got picked up closer to home, I could say I was going to the 24 hour store for mosquito repellent. But not here, I had to cover my tracks.
I accelerated hard. The car jolted forward as the traction gripped the concrete road and propelled me forward.
I took it up to 160 km/h. Not having lights beside the reflectors on the middle of the long highway ahead made it dark, and the car rocked on its suspension and the wheel felt sweaty under my grip. The red and blue of the cop car shrank in my mirror as they struggled to keep up with me. I hit 185 km/h and the road curved round and I shifted my weight to steer. One wrong pull and I would fly off this empty road in seconds. I´d be dead in seconds. But I didn´t make a wrong move. I shifted my weight and we curved around.
A couple of trailers entered my view. I zipped passed them so fast I doubt the sleepy drivers even saw me. The red and blue lights followed about 100 meters on my tail. I peeled my foot off the accelerator and the Volvo started to slow. Air pressure pushed around me from behind as the needle moved from 180 km/h to 100 to 50 to 20 and I pulled over onto the gritty, trash strewn Mexican hard shoulder next to an abandoned mini fridge, door hanging open, blackened by stains.
We were beyond the city limits, and the gated neighborhood in which the company housed Eleanor and I. There were a few dim yellow lights hanging above us and along the road, but that was it. The fields to the sides were in pitch darkness.
I waited 5 seconds while the cop car pulled over behind me and the doors flung open at the same time. I could see them both as they hurried out of their vehicle. One guy was short and in good shape. The other, rotund and awkward. They were wearing Federal Police uniforms. Dark blue, with emblems and numbers on their arms. They both had hats too.
The first face at my window was the stocky guy. His eyes like slits and his skin pockmarked from spots of his adolescence.
But he spoke in English.
“What the hell?”
His accent was South Western. “What the hell? You´re supposed to slow down, act normal.”
Relief flooded my body. My employer had a funny way of sending messages.
The pretend police officer leaned further into my car.
“Seriously. Why the hell you speed up like that?” he said.
I turned to look back at him. “I´m sorry, I thought you were real cops. I was getting stuff tonight.”
Stocky stepped back and said something to his partner, whose face remained in the darkness. He then leaned back in the window. It was cold outside. I felt the breeze come in with him.
“The job you´re on is done,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I already got that message. Two weeks and I´m finished.”
“No,” he said. “You got reassigned a new project. Down in Lujano. Our employer needs you to stop your activities now, and get down to Lujano for an interview tomorrow.”
Hundreds of thoughts went through my head. There had to be a mistake. Maybe they got the wrong operative, but inside my gut I knew the nightmare was being extended.
“No,” I said. “I´ve done everything they asked of me. This can´t be right.”
He smiled for the first time. “We don´t know anything about that.”
Then, the other “cop” edged stocky aside and leaned in. His face was worn. It didn´t match his bulky frame. It looked like he´d put on a lot of weight in a short amount of time. I checked his left hand and saw the glistening mark of where a wedding ring recently rested. Divorced. And food was his therapy. I looked back at his face quickly.
“Hello,” he said. “Our employer needs you to tie things up at International Paper quickly. The interview tomorrow will take an hour. Just a formality…”
“Damn it,” I said. “This can´t be right. They promised me.”
“I don´t know nothing about that, but you need to get back here and do what you have to do this week.”
“Do I still deliver to the same contact?”
The cop nodded, “Yeah, Lena Betancourt. She´ll pick it up from you later this week.”
“And what if I refuse to go to Lujano?” I said.
“This isn´t a request.” said the cop. “There´ll be a driver at Lujano airport all morning tomorrow. He´ll take you to the interview. He´ll have the name you use here. Just get there before midday.”
He turned without waiting for a reply and I watched them walk back to their patrol car in my mirror.
At least Eleanor would be asleep. The 1am sky was luminous and for this time of year in Mexico, fresh with a sturdy breeze clearing the air up.
I looked forward again. The highway lay ahead. I knew what kind of a week I had before me. Eleanor would find out soon enough but I´d avoid her tonight.
The cops drove passed with arms raised out of each window. I pressed the ignition button and revved the engine.
Of course, it had to be today, of all days, to let Eleanor down again.
The 10th anniversary of our son´s official death. The day the authorities told us to give up hope of ever finding him.
Not that Eleanor ever had.
Chapter Three
We lived in a closed neighborhood called Las Villas del Sol, an exclusive enclosure filled with rich locals and nervous foreigners. Inside, the place was row after row of ranch-style houses that looked as if they’d been copied-and-pasted from one yard to the next, each the same shade of pink, something like the houses in the Stepford Wives movie. It suited me. I fitted in. It was easy cover.
A tremendous pink stone wall surrounded the two square kilometers of prime real estate and a single security gate, manned by three guys was the only point in which the wall broke. I flashed my resident ID, they scanned my plates and I drove through.
Inside, the streets sat snug between coffered and well maintained deciduous hedges. The lawns sloped in lumps and trees dotted them.
Each house was finished at great expense, massive timber planks fused with panes of glass more expensive than three apartments in the ghettos, and all lit with solar powered garden la
mps.
I entered the driveway and parked, killing the engine. I got out and walked up to the front door.
The lights were off. Our rented house was a grand place with its thin grey pathway threading itself through shoulder high pampas grass, and the door was metal and huge. There was no key, just a code.
Once in, I retyped the outdoor alarm code and walked through to the black granite kitchen, grabbed a half empty bottle of 1800 tequila, poured myself a shot, downed it, poured another and sipped it. I was standing in darkness. I turned on the lights and the shine from the expensive black granite counter tops dazzled my eyes. I turned the light back out and went upstairs. Eleanor was asleep in our four poster bed so I stepped with care around to my side, but it didn´t matter, she was out for the count.
Right before I got into bed my cell phone started buzzing and ringing again, I grabbed it, pressed the green button to shut it up and pranced from the room heading downstairs.
It was a blocked number.
“Digame,” I said.
There was silence on the line.
“Digame,” I said.
A voice I didn´t recognize answered.
“We can help you, Mr Dyce,” it said.
I stayed quiet.
The voice continued, “Go to Lujano, Mr Dyce,” said the voice. “And we´ll make sure this is your last job. We can get you out of this.”
I searched my memory but the voice was new to me.
“I don´t know what you´re talking about.” I said.
“They´re going to ask you to do something different this time,” said the voice.
I stayed quiet.
“You have to leave your wife behind. She isn´t safe.”
“Who the hell is this?” I felt my cheeks get hot.
“We have the same interests.”
“And what are those?”
“Your employer,” said the voice.
“Who is this?”
“We want the same thing.”
“Who is this?”
“I´m calling on behalf of Mr. Reynolds.”
I stayed quiet. I listened for a sound upstairs, but Eleanor hadn´t stirred. I didn´t know any Mr. Reynolds.
“We can fix it all,” continued the voice. “Just go to Lujano. Everything they tell you to do. Leave your wife there.”
And the line went dead.
I put the phone down in the darkness and backed away from it until my lower back hit a kitchen unit. I had forgotten I was downstairs.
Eleanor´s voice came from upstairs, “Scotty?”
“It´s me,” I said back.
I went upstairs and promised myself as soon as Lujano was done, whether my employer delivered on his promise or not, she would know the truth.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I got dressed in my best suit, dodged Eleanor by leaving the house at 5am. I took a local flight from the small airport out of town down to Lujano, which lay three hours north from Mexico City and right in between the Pacific and Mexican Gulf coastlines. I telephoned my absence to International Paper on my way to the airport. The flight was less than an hour, and the security was minimal. I used my current fake name, Skelsh, for the trip.
I arrived in Lujano airport at 8am and found the driver. My employer seemed to keep things as minimal as possible, leaving most moves to common sense. A driver who had my name, while I had the time range the driver would be there. No messages written down, or SMS, or instant messages or e-mails.
The driver took me to a small hotel called U-stay that catered for business travelers. I checked in under the Skelsh name and they directed me to room 108.
I went up and the ubiquitous hotel room was empty, but on the bed was an envelope. I opened it and read,
Interview at 1pm, conference room “Tolteca”.
I cleaned up, brewed a coffee, downed it, waited until 12:45 and headed out to the conference room.
The interview was a farce. I sat in front of three old directors in the cheap rented conference room. They were all over 50 and dressed sharp. Their eyes slumped in a disinterested slant and betrayed their clean suits, and handmade shoes. Professional facade with nothing inside. Not one of them had hair and their faces drooped, haggard and stressed. They welcomed me with minimal hand gestures, and said little. I sat down in the only other chair, facing them.
Conversely, young temps dressed in their neatest suits fluttered around me offering coffee, drinks, food. I felt sorry for the genuine people who worked at these corporations, totally ignorant of what went on at the top, while they hoped they might get noticed and climb the ladder. In reality, the dirty tricks people played to earn a few extra million dollars. The dirty tricks that, more often than not, cost jobs and affected people way outside the reach of company employees.
Once the temps had left, and the doors shut, the three old men asked me a couple of contrived questions about my managerial experience, and my ability to lead. They knew what was going on. It had been the same with International Paper. My employer had people already infiltrated. The new company I would lead was called Polysol, my position would be Plant Director. My new cover name was Mark Kersteen. I was being head-hunted, they said.
I asked if they knew anything about my employer´s promise. They didn´t.
I thanked them, and left. I was on a plane by 3pm and back home by 6pm. I thanked my luck that Eleanor had gone out for the afternoon and left me a note. I wasn´t ready to talk with her.
By the evening, I had received the formal job offer from Polysol with instructions that it was necessary to resign from my current role with immediate effect. I accepted it and drafted an email of resignation to International Paper.
I returned to work the next day to meet all the messages of good luck and false regret from my team of managers, and co-directors. I had planned on carrying out the financial steal in two weeks, and the sabotage until last, but my strategy got compressed into 5 working days.
I sat the whole afternoon in the office, trying to foresee the week´s tasks. A week was slim, but the financial records for the past five years would be a start. I made an appointment with the plant manager the next day. The next part would be the sabotage. In the afternoon, I headed to the production area, walked through the busy production lines full of hundreds of hapless people trying to imitate their mechanical partners as best they could. Improving on seconds, kai san, poke yoke. Japanese lean manufacturing techniques to improve performance, efficiency and profits. At some point, flesh touched metal and became robot. The operators moved in swift muscle remembered movements. It required skill like a trick, they knew one, or maybe two processes and that was it. These people worked for a tiny pay packet – 300 US a month – and a lot of them blew it on booze every weekend.
The production area stretched for nearly a kilometer into a deep steel recess. Around 1,500 operators filled the gaps between each production cell like ants in burrows. Huge reams of paper were being shipped up and down each corridor on forklifts, and the beep, beep, beep of the warning sound padded the air with noise. No one talked and it was too loud in any case. I stood on the upper steps looking down. It was normal for me to do that, and even the operators who saw me ignored me.
I descended onto the floor and began monitoring their work.
After twenty minutes of strolling, I had worked out the camera angles and where they covered. I found a quiet spot down by the warehouse area, a dead spot, and located the nearest fire alarm and hit it hard.
Old school.
The noise was immense. I walked with urgency down the warehouse corridor and slid from view. I waited three minutes until I could tell people were starting to file out. I walked with calm back into the floor and flowed with the crowd.
Some panicked. Most chatted and joked.
Keeping my head down, I slipped into a cell where a new run was going into full production. They would start producing 1000s of reams before the first proper post launch quality check would take place. I opened up the cell manage
ment CPU, selected some dimensions for the cutting and changed them by a few degrees. I then repeated this process on twenty different cells, just like my employer had specified.
How many jobs would be lost? It was hard to say. But International Paper´s stock price would dip just enough for my employer or employers to make a ton of money from shorting it. My tracks were covered and the damage would be ample. And by the time the company´s board suspected their ex-Director, I´d be gone without a trace. Mexico was a good country in which to disappear.
The second day, I met with the plant controller as planned. A young lady from Mexico City. Smart, and organized. I had programmed a false phone call with a recorded message to her cell phone using a service called Wakeupper, an online website that scheduled phone calls with automated messages at any time you liked, demanding her presence on the production floor. She waved me to sit down on the guest chair as she left in haste.
I waited three minutes before I ran round to her side of the desk and opened her computer. She had left the desktop open, which saved me time. I Inserted a USB and downloaded her entire hard drive.
I had time to sit back down, and look natural with five minutes to spare before she came back.
And that was that, my colleagues even bought me a cake to say goodbye.
The people that worked with me would not see Jim Skelsh again. Because Jim Skelsh did not exist.
I wasn´t alone of course. There was Lena, my contact. Although she seemed far more experienced at the spying game than me. I´d gotten to know her quite well. She was Production Manager here at International Paper. And on my last day, when everyone had organized the cake, and booked out a meeting room, and everybody was all happy, Lena approached me smiling with her arms apart ready for a goodbye hug. She was a pretty lady, her skin tone was white but had turned a yellowy olive in years of sun. She stood at six foot tall with her heels and overall came across rather striking. Her suit was tailored and crafted from wool.
She spoke with a strong Mexican accent, but her parents were from Switzerland or something. I liked her. She was a real pro. She walked to me as she hugged me and chattered in Spanish at me, she pulled my head in the most subtle way and whispered in my ear, “meet me in the bathroom. 5 minutes”.