“Very early after nine-eleven, U.S. intelligence agencies launched a series of operations that enabled them to locate and target key individuals in groups such as al-Qaeda in Iraq, the Sunni insurgency, and renegade Shia militias, or so-called special groups,” Wade said. “The operations relied upon some of the most highly classified information in the U.S. government.”
“What’s his background?”
“Parents immigrated from Greece. He enlisted in the army and was identified as a candidate for further training. Apparently he showed a propensity for learning foreign languages—Spanish, Portuguese, German, French—and was assigned to the Defense Language Institute. He later served during Desert Storm. Honorably discharged and went to work for a private security contractor in the Middle East, Afghanistan, and Northern Africa.”
“And we brought him back after nine-eleven.”
Wade nodded. “He also speaks Farsi and several other Arab dialects.”
Jenkins knew that this skill would have made Stenopolis a valuable asset. “Then what?”
Wade shrugged. “Based on what you’ve told me, he apparently went out on his own.”
Jenkins reconsidered the blowup of the man’s face. “If he’s independent, there has to be a way for people to get in contact with him.”
“This is where it gets tricky.”
Jenkins waited.
“There’s a name on a card in the file, someone who might know how to contact him but who won’t be eager to talk to you about it.”
Jenkins did not recognize the name on the card, but he knew why the man would be reluctant to discuss any association with someone like Stenopolis. “I appreciate it, Curley,” he said. Then he asked the question that had been on his mind since he saw the photo of Stenopolis in uniform.
“How long did he work for the Agency?”
It was the only way Anthony Stenopolis could have been brought back into the fold so quickly after 9/11, given that the Agency had sent officers to Afghanistan just eight days after the planes crashed into the Twin Towers and had boots on the ground within fifteen. It was also the only way Wade could have obtained the information on Stenopolis so fast. He either had been, or remained, on the Agency’s radar.
Wade did not immediately answer the question. Measuring his response, he said, “If he’s done what you say, somewhere along the way he suffered a break. It could have been something during the war or something after, but he’s gone down a very dark path.”
Jenkins slipped the photos back into the envelope. “That path is about to come to an end, Curley.”
THE SORRENTO HOTEL
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
SLOANE ENTERED THE Sorrento Hotel from Madison Street still pondering his strategy. He pushed through a draped entrance that separated the hotel lobby from the Fireside Room and saw Barclay Reid sitting in a leather wing chair near a green tiled fireplace. Built in 1908, the hotel had been renovated but retained the original decor and furnishings. Shaped like an octagon, the Fireside Room was as ornate as a set from Titanic, with beaded lampshades, tasseled and overstuffed leather and cloth upholstery, potted palms, and dark mahogany walls. Crown molding gleamed beneath recessed ceiling lights, one of which lit Barclay as she stepped around the leather ottoman.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” Her handshake remained firm, but her tone was much more conciliatory than it had been in the courtroom earlier that day.
“Not a problem,” Sloane said. “I’ve always wanted to see this place.”
“Let me first express my condolences. I’m very sorry for your loss. I haven’t had the chance to tell you that.”
“Thank you,” Sloane said, believing her genuine. He sat in one of the wing chairs across the ottoman. The flames from the fire flickered shadows, and a piano player filled the room with soft jazz.
“What did you think of the hearing today?” Reid asked.
“About what I expected. You?”
“I wasn’t thrilled that he’s still considering the independent testing, but I agree, about what I expected.”
A waiter in tuxedo attire, absent the jacket, approached. Reid already had a martini set on the table by her chair. “Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“Scotch, rocks,” Sloane said.
“A Scotch man.” Reid smiled. “Also what I would have expected.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“You’re in the news a lot.”
“So are you, but I wouldn’t have guessed martini.”
“What would you have guessed?”
“Cosmopolitan.”
She made a face. “Too sweet. Truth is, I’d rather have a beer, but it didn’t seem an appropriate choice given the decor.” She picked up her glass. “I think when push comes to shove, Judge Rudolph will deny your request for independent testing. There’s no legal basis for him to order it.”
“My experience is Judge Rudolph doesn’t get too hung up on the law,” Sloane said.
“We’ll take a writ.” Reid pulled an olive off a stick with her teeth. She referred to an immediate appeal to an appellate court to get a decision on a particular legal issue before the final resolution of the case.
“You could do that,” Sloane said. “But tell me, why would Kendall? As I’ve said, if the product is safe and not susceptible to defects, why not just get the independent testing performed and be done with it?”
“Because it sets a bad precedent, and the law does not allow for it.”
“How is making sure a product is safe a bad precedent? What about a moral reason? This is the same company that professes to put the safety of children first and foremost.”
“And they have, for over one hundred years. But they don’t want the government or the courts ordering them to do what the current law and regulations do not require.”
“So tell them to do it voluntarily. Be a trailblazer. They can use the positive publicity.”
The waiter set Sloane’s drink on a coaster on the table beside him. Sloane took a sip, keeping the glass in his hand and letting the Scotch stimulate his taste buds before swallowing.
“You also have no evidence that Kendall was aware of the alleged defect.”
“I beg to differ,” Sloane said, hoping to provoke some response.
“And what would that be?”
“Kyle Horgan.”
“Malcolm mentioned something about that. He’ll state under oath that he never saw any letter and does not know the man,” Reid said.
“Then we’ll let a jury decide who’s telling the truth.”
Reid tucked her hair behind one ear, looking girlish. “Who is this guy anyway?”
“He designed Metamorphis.”
She smiled. “Metamorphis was designed in-house at Kendall.”
“Then someone stole Horgan’s design.”
“You can prove that?”
“I’m working on it.”
“We’ll want to depose Horgan.”
“That’s one of the things I’m working on. He’s disappeared. I don’t know where he is.” Sloane saw no reason to hide that ball. Reid would learn of it soon enough.
Reid contemplated that piece of information for a moment, undoubtedly wondering if Sloane truly didn’t know where Horgan was, or if he was just keeping the information from her.
“We’ll find him,” she said, confirming his deduction.
“If you do, let me know, would you?” Sloane took another sip. “I don’t need to show knowledge if the product is defective and injured two children.”
“One child,” she countered. “We intend to file a motion to enforce the settlement agreement with the Gallegoses. Given that they were represented by counsel, Rudolph will have to enforce its terms.”
“You’ve met Dayron, have you?”
“Not in person, no.”
“I have. You might want to meet him before you conclude the Gallegoses were represented by anybody.”
“The law doesn’t look into how competent the
attorney is.”
“Actually it does, and it does require that the attorney be licensed. Dayron’s in a bit of trouble with the bar, Barclay, and it isn’t the first time. He had his license suspended two years ago. My clients don’t read English, he never told them about the magnets, he threatened them with deportation, and he kept two-thirds of the settlement.” Sloane shrugged. “So, one child with magnets in his intestines might be an accident, but two is a problem for your client. It will be very difficult for a court to dismiss, or the media for that matter. But let’s forget all that for a moment. How is it going to look if six months from now Metamorphis is recalled because another child has died? How’s it going to look when the public learns that Kendall had knowledge of even the possibility of a defect but chose to go to market anyway? Is that the image your client wants portrayed to the media? Is that the image your client wants for a company that has proudly made safe toys for children for more than a hundred years?”
“My client is confident there will be no recall.”
“I hope for the children of the families who buy the toy that he’s right.”
Reid sipped her martini. “But you do raise a good point.”
“I did?” Sloane said. “It didn’t sound like it. Which one?”
“Kendall has built a reputation in the community over the past hundred years and doesn’t want to see that reputation dragged through the media.”
A settlement. Sloane had suspected it to be the purpose for the meeting. He didn’t think Reid had called to get better acquainted. “I’m all ears.”
“I’ve been authorized to offer each of your clients a million dollars.”
That number surprised him, by a wide margin. He was glad he had not been sipping his drink because he might have choked. In an instant Reid had pulled the rug out from beneath Sloane’s feet. A settlement would keep him from getting to Fitzgerald.
“But they both have to agree,” she said.
“You can’t link the two together.”
“I can and I am. If one declines, the offer is off the table and Katie bar the door. Kendall is not admitting liability. It’s protecting its reputation. Both families must agree to full confidentiality of the settlement, and abide by the temporary restraining order. You agree to return any documents in your possession that make any mention of Metamorphis.”
“And will Kendall agree to have the toy independently tested?” Sloane asked.
Reid spoke over the rim of her martini glass. “That,” she said, “is a deal breaker.”
HE ADMIRED THE ebb and flow of muscles in the full-length mirrored walls. Attired in spandex pants and tennis shoes, Anthony Stenopolis followed a droplet of sweat over the ridges of his stomach as he pulled himself up and placed his chin over the bar. Around his waist he had strapped a leather belt, and hanging from it, a forty-five-pound weight. His personal best at this weight was twenty-eight pull-ups. He was halfway to that goal and felt no fatigue.
The fitness club frowned on patrons displaying flesh, but it was open twenty-four hours, and nearing midnight, Stenopolis had the weight room almost to himself. Besides, the woman doing a set of lunges on the opposite side of the floor didn’t seem to mind, sneaking peeks at him in the mirror and giving him a flirtatious smile. He ignored her, maintaining his focus despite the annoying heavy beat of music thumping the room.
When he had completed a set of thirty-four he dropped to the rubber mat and quickly counted out fifty push-ups, rolling a small medicine ball back and forth between his hands to add difficulty. His forty-five-minute workout focused on core muscles, balance, and stamina. He smirked at the muscle heads who threw three hundred pounds on a bar and bench-pressed it once to their chest, then flexed in the mirror, as if it were an incredible act of strength. Most couldn’t run up a flight of stairs without becoming winded.
He used fitness clubs in the various cities he frequented, buying one-day guest passes. He kept no permanent memberships because he kept no permanent address, both of which could be traced. Since he also discarded most of his clothing after each job, his wardrobe came from a suitcase, replenished in the cities where he worked around the world. It further eliminated any trail of identification.
After his push-ups he found an isolated corner and went through each of his martial arts movements, concentrating on exact precision. When done, he would conclude his workout with five three-minute rounds of kickboxing on the heavy bag. It was more than he had intended to do, but he remained disturbed after a client called to express displeasure with his recent performance. It seemed that the attorney, David Sloane, remained a nuisance, and the client opined that Stenopolis should have killed Sloane when he had the chance. Stenopolis hated it when clients sought more than they had bargained for, or questioned his integrity. He politely reminded his client that his assignment had been to retrieve Kyle Horgan’s file, and that he had accomplished that task. If the client had wanted Sloane dead, Stenopolis would have put a bullet in his skull and ensured it. In fact, had the kid not called 911 that’s exactly what he would have done. Stenopolis was not in the habit of leaving anyone alive who could identify him, and he had assumed, wrongly, that Sloane’s wounds were also fatal. Once he’d heard the sirens his priority became retrieving Horgan’s file. Stenopolis had never failed to complete an assignment. Still, he was more than willing to accommodate his client—for a further fee, a sum they agreed upon after minimal bartering.
During his workout Stenopolis focused his attention on how best to accomplish the task of killing David Sloane, which would now be more difficult, since Sloane would be guarded and could visually identify him. Sloane was also obviously bright and would likely be more attentive to anything out of the norm. What Stenopolis found most intriguing, however, was the information he had obtained about the police investigation into the death of Sloane’s wife. The police had not directed any inquiry to Kendall Toys, which surely would have been the case if Sloane had advised them about Kyle Horgan’s file. The lack of inquiry could only mean that Sloane was holding back information, and the only reason Stenopolis could fathom that Sloane would do so was Sloane did not want the police talking to Kendall. Sloane apparently thought he could exact revenge for his wife’s death. Stenopolis smiled at his reflection in the mirror. Sloane had convinced himself that he was a physical and intellectual match. It was a typical marine mentality and Stenopolis had encountered it many times during and after his military service. Their arrogance—unwilling even to refer to themselves as a “former marine”—was usually their downfall. Most still saw themselves as the lean, muscular recruits brainwashed out of boot camp to believe they could run through brick walls and that bullets would bounce off their chests. In reality civilian life made them soft. They lost their edge. Sloane was about to find that out firsthand.
The veins of Stenopolis’s biceps bulged with the flow of blood pumping through his body. The thought of Sloane fueled him until his arms trembled from the exertion and he could barely lift them above his shoulders. Sitting and wiping the sweat dripping down his chest with a towel, he heard the cell phone in his gym bag ring, barely audible over the coarse music pumping through the overhead speakers. Cell phones were also prohibited in the club. Stenopolis answered.
“Someone pulled your file.”
Stenopolis did not have to ask the caller his name, or the meaning of his statement. He recognized the voice, though he had not heard it in some years.
“Do we know who?”
“Former operative. Has a desk job now. Curley Wade.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Stenopolis disconnected the call, grabbed his gym bag, and walked toward the locker room and showers. Mr. Sloane had been granted a temporary reprieve.
CHAPTER
TEN
ONE UNION SQUARE BUILDING
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
The following day, Sloane separated the McFarlands and Gallegoses in two conference rooms, not wanting either to feel pressured by t
he other’s decision. He knew Kendall’s motivation to settle was to avoid the media, and he couldn’t blame them for making it an all-or-nothing deal. It had, however, placed him in a difficult situation. It was reasonable to assume, given that they had already returned more than three million dollars, that the McFarlands would turn down Kendall’s offer. The Gallegos situation, however, was completely different. For them a million dollars could substantially change their lives and the lives of their children.
As Sloane walked down the hall to where the Gallegoses waited, Tom Pendergrass intercepted him. “The court in San Francisco granted the TRO, David.”
Sloane had expected as much, given his decision not to contest it. “What about the custody hearing?”
“Two weeks from today. The court ordered briefs filed by the end of this week. I’m going to need some time to talk with you. The court looks at the child’s living situation, school, finances. There are a lot of factors.”
Sloane looked at his watch. “Okay, let’s catch up this afternoon.”
The Gallegoses sat at the conference room table still wearing their coats and looking concerned and uncomfortable. Sloane greeted them in Spanish to try to ease their anxiety. It only partially worked. Manny smiled, but Rosa-Maria continued to fidget with an oval-shaped medal around her neck.
“It’s beautiful,” Sloane said of the blue and silver medallion at the end of the chain.
She moved her hand so that he could better see it. “It is Our Lady of Guadalupe,” she said, still speaking Spanish. “Are you familiar with her?”
“I’m afraid not.” Sloane knew Mary was considered to be the mother of Jesus Christ, and he had learned somewhere that 90 percent of the households in Mexico had an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe in their homes, a higher percentage than the population of Catholics in the country.
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