Terminal Rage

by Khalifa, A. M.

  Monica grabbed her phone and started dialing. “The forensic team on the top floor is still working on the forty-eighth. Let’s divert them to Balmoral Westwood and meet them there.”

  Nishimura was still reading, his eyes glued to the monitor. “Wait. Something’s not adding up here. The number of permanent staff listed for the office of Balmoral Westwood is zero. They have an office but nobody works in it. Security only issued one building pass for a company director to come in casually. If I go back three years, same thing. The last time someone worked in that office full-time was 2005.”

  Slant squinted hard, like he was struggling to squeeze something out of his head. “What was the name of that company again?”

  “Balmoral Westwood, LLC.”

  “Liam, check the report Finn Simmer filed from Cairo this morning. A summary of the meeting he and our ambassador had with the Egyptian generals.”

  Nishimura clicked and scrolled on his laptop with organic precision.

  “Got it right here. What am I looking for?”

  “A mention of that company, Balmoral Westwood. The name is ringing a bell from Simmer’s report.”

  Nishimura froze behind the computer then shot up abruptly.

  Slant glanced at him like a concerned parent.

  “What’s wrong, kid?”

  “You’re right, Simmer did reference Balmoral Westwood in his report.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s a shell corporation registered in Delaware. The Egyptians claim it’s a front for a close member of the Mubarak family. One of their conditions to hand over Nabulsi and Madi was for us to help them freeze Balmoral Westwood’s assets. Nearly six hundred million dollars of US government bonds, stocks, mutuals and time deposits. A massive fortune accrued illegally, according to this report.”

  The Egyptians had requested the US government’s help to seize Balmoral Westwood’s assets in return for Nabulsi and Madi’s freedom. What are the odds the same company has an office in the same building from which Seth launched his offensive to free these terrorists?

  Coincidence, my ass.

  Slant pointed to Nishimura’s laptop. “Is there any mention of that other company that shares the office with Balmoral Westwood?”

  “The Aswan Group?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nishimura sat down and continued to read Simmer’s report closely. “Nothing, but there’s something else here.”

  “What?”

  “The Egyptians think the same member of the Mubarak family had set up another dummy US corp to launder money in a different way. They don’t know the name of the company, they just suspect its existence.”

  “What else do they know about it?”

  Nishimura read and paraphrased from Simmer’s report. “They believe it was a front to aggregate anonymously owned real estate across America. Thousands of properties purchased with laundered money. They found out about it through an informer who squealed after the revolution in return for immunity.”

  Nishimura’s eyes lit up as the geek in him overpowered the FBI agent.

  “They built an impenetrable piece of software called Leviathan. It’s the key to unlocking the real estate fortunes they’d been amassing since 2008. The informer provided them with a copy of Leviathan, but neither he nor the Egyptians have a clue how to operate it. They’re sitting on it with their hands tied.”

  Blackwell was already ahead of Nishimura.

  “I know where this is going. The Egyptians want us to help them crack Leviathan so they can liquidate the company’s real estate holdings.”

  “Exactly. There is an NSA cryptographer who the Egyptians think can get the job done. Danny Zimmerman, ex-Mossad. It says here the president approved it as part of the deal to get Nabulsi and Madi.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  Nishimura scanned the report and his eyes popped. “Everyone sit down or hold someone’s hand. The conservative estimate is three billion dollars. However, it could be as high as seven billion, according to the Egyptians.”

  Slant couldn’t control himself. “Holy mother of fucking crap!”

  Monica tapped Nishimura’s shoulder. “Do the Egyptians know anything else tangible about this second company, other than its suspected activities?”

  “Nothing conclusive. Oh, wait.”

  All eyes fixed on Nishimura.

  “They think it may be incorporated in Wyoming or Nevada.”

  Blackwell held out his hand to speak ahead of anyone else before the thought escaped him.

  “Check the building’s tenancy records again. Where is the Aswan Group incorporated?”

  “Nevada.”

  The office of Balmoral Westwood and the Aswan Group was on a floor used mostly by the archives department of the insurance company that owned the building. A low traffic area providing the perfect cover for an office trying to stay under the radar.

  The tempered glass door of the office had been smashed to tiny shards sprayed on the champagne carpeting. A few FBI forensic agents were already at the scene, finally getting some action at the real centerpiece of the crime scene.

  Blackwell stopped to speak to a pretty young agent with long frizzy hair lifting prints outside the office.

  “Didn’t HAZMAT check this floor already?”

  “Yep,” she said, her attention focused on the swab she was using to lift DNA.

  “How’d they miss it?”

  She turned to face him. “Well, there’s HAZMAT for you. If it’s not hazardous materials, then it can’t be that important.”

  Blackwell pointed to the broken glass. “You guys found it like this?”

  “Uh-huh. The surveillance camera in the corridor was disabled during the break-in. Whoever did this used some sort of digital silencer to make sure we never saw what happened.”

  “A digital silencer?”

  “Long story.”

  Blackwell thanked her and joined Monica and the rest of the team inside. The reception area was sparse, with a medium-sized desk still bearing the name plaque of the woman who had probably once managed the office years ago. Suzie Greiss.

  A private room whose oak door had been all but destroyed housed the master office, also furnished minimally. A huge ornate desk with nothing on its glass surface and a brand new office chair still in its plastic cover. A few leather armchairs were sprinkled around the room with no design strategy to speak of. On the wall, a photo of a much-younger version of the deposed President Mubarak.

  The cute forensic agent from outside showed them a teak shelf that had been pulled down, its leather-bound books scattered on the floor. Behind it, a room-sized safe had been broken into with a combination of shrewd burglary and clever science. The safe was stacked with small metal chests, many of which had been opened with their contents sprawled on the floor.

  Two smaller chests had been completely plundered. Whoever broke in had found exactly what they were after inside of them, and then stopped looking.

  Blackwell blurted out the first and only thing that came to his mind.

  “We may never find out who did this.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday, April 7, 2012—11:03 a.m.

  Easton, Maryland

  A FedEx van turned off Fort Stokes Lane into Blackwell’s tree-lined driveway and triggered his security camera. He was sitting in the kitchen reading when the monitor on the central island blinked and caught his attention. The speed of the van and the length of his driveway gave him enough time to finish the last lines of the op-ed in the Washington Post.

  Many years had elapsed since he’d received a package here, and he wondered if it would be the same FedEx driver delivering it. After all, this was Easton, Maryland, and time moved at its own leisure. People worked the same job for thirty or forty good years.

  He’d onl
y been living here for the last five months. This used to be his parents’ house. They both died in a gruesome car crash in Guatemala, leaving the house to Blackwell and his younger sister Alice.

  For a while they both kept up the family tradition of meeting there every Thanksgiving with their spouses and children. That all came to an end when he hit rock bottom.

  Sunlight was flooding in from every possible direction. Expansive French windows were open, extending the kitchen into the backyard. The house was a mansion nestled in acres of land with apple trees and a heart-shaped swimming pool in the backyard overlooking the Tred Avon River.

  Whiffs of creamy scrambled eggs and toast remnants from breakfast meant his kids had once again failed to keep their end of the bargain to clean up if he cooked them a breakfast of their choice. Dirty dishes and glasses littered the table, next to a milk carton and a bottle of orange juice desperate to get back in the fridge if they were to stay fresh.

  Where are the kids?

  Across the cavernous ground floor of the house, the silhouette of the FedEx driver danced behind the cast-iron and glass door. Blackwell could make out a package in one hand and the scanning device in the other.

  The driver rang the bell once. The door was ajar but he must have known better than to push it open or try to come in. Out here in Talbot County, people took their private property seriously and trespassers were fair game. Easton guns were big and always loaded.

  There they are.

  His twelve-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter had been in the living area near the main door all along, slouched mute on the cream leather sofa. Three-D glasses covered their faces, sucking them in Kung Fu Panda 2. His yellow Labrador, Jacky, was napping peacefully at their feet.

  Blackwell was about to open the door himself then changed his mind and waited to see how his kids would react. He was concerned they were spending less time interacting with the real world, and more time with their heads buried in tiny screens all day. The dog, however, needed no additional socialization. Its people skills were on steroids, and fortunately for the driver, she continued her lazy siesta.

  The kids happily ignored the bell so the driver rang again. Finally his daughter half got up, then changed her mind and sank back in the couch as if she was connected to it through some invisible intravenous port.

  “Hi! Got a package for your dad.” The driver could obviously see the kids, but they exuded nothing but more indifference.

  The FedEx driver rang the bell a third time.

  His daughter cupped her hands around her mouth to transform it into a megaphone and bellowed, “Dad! It’s for you.”

  This is not going to work...

  Blackwell jumped out of the comfort of his rocking chair and yelled out to the FedEx driver, “Coming!”

  His heart warmed up when he saw it was the same FedEx man from the days his parents used to live out here six months of the year.

  “Sorry about the wait.” He scribbled something resembling his name using a worn-out stylus.

  The driver grinned at him. “Don’t worry about it. My kids were the same at that age. There’s always something more fun to do at any given time.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Hey, sorry about your folks,” he said, nodding in respect.

  Blackwell bit his lips and took a deep breath.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome home.”

  Blackwell shut the door and held the package in his hands, hoping its weight would provide some indication of its contents. The sender was a Dietrich Meier, a name he didn’t recognize. The package originated in Frankfurt, Germany. Quite odd he would receive anything here, let alone from overseas. Other than Melanie and the kids, only his sister Alice knew he had moved back to Maryland right before Christmas. Alice was traveling with her own family for the next few months in Thailand and Malaysia, so it was unlikely this was from her.

  Blackwell had moved back to be near his kids, who lived an hour’s drive across the Chesapeake Bay in Bethesda, where Melanie had relocated after the divorce.

  The kids had suffered the most in the past five years while he and Melanie had razed the marriage to the ground. The short encounters in the dead of the night his ex-wife had reluctantly approved in the last two years were failing to satisfy him. Not after what had happened in Manhattan anyway. Coming unbearably close to a rerun of Hermosa Beach had forced him to reassess his life.

  A few months of intense negotiations with Melanie resulted in an agreement he could re-enter their lives. Milo and Calista’s deep yearning for a nurturing environment sealed the deal for him. On his part, Blackwell was desperate to prove to Melanie he no longer obsessed about his inner demons, their kids being his only priority now.

  Part of the agreement was for him to go to Bethesda at least twice a week to give her a hand with the relentless logistics of parenting. Melanie had borne the brunt of taking care of the kids while he was on his four-year ‘emotional safari’ in Anguilla.

  And as blunt as a brick to the head could be, she informed him she had started dating other men and that she expected him to be an adult about it. Painful as it was, he conceded, hoping to earn back her respect and trust so she would never take away the kids from him.

  To his delight Melanie had accepted his invitation to join them for the second part of this week-long spring break holiday. She must have agonized over this decision and probably only did it for the kids, who were starved for a taste of normal. To spend time with both their parents under a peaceful sky without the torrential rains of domestic fighting. All the shouting, hurtfulness and crying that had become the norm during the last few months of their marriage before it all came crashing down.

  Blackwell touched the light FedEx envelope and a familiar electric buzz traveled through his body. He picked at the tip of the seal with his fingers to rip it open but then remembered the kids. Milo and Calista had removed their three-D glasses and were staring at him with huge eyes as the end credits rolled on the screen. He gazed at the envelope then back at the kids and made up his mind.

  “Assuming you kids clear up the kitchen as you promised, who wants to go crabbing later?”

  Milo and Calista jumped up and down on the couch. Jacky the Labrador woke up and circled around her tail in solidarity with the kids. Poor pooch, unaware she wasn’t invited to the boat excursion. Blackwell stashed the envelope inside a bookshelf near the television and asked another redundant question.

  “Trotline or crab pot?”

  The children responded in a raucous concert.

  “Crab pot! Crab pot! Crab pot!”

  Jacky seemed to agree on that too. She jumped on the couch in total defiance of his strict rules and barked in high-pitched delirium.

  Blackwell’s dad had purchased the Sea Ray Sundancer boat in ’97 and had taken care of her like family. After he died, the boat went from occasional use to total abandonment. The last nail in its coffin came after Blackwell’s meltdown and his move to the Caribbean. Like most of their parents’ belongings, he and Alice had refused to sell the boat. They stored it in the shed, its mechanical parts giving way to rust and neglect.

  One of Blackwell’s first projects when he had returned to Easton in December was to renovate the boat to its past glory. During the bitter winter months, he kicked off the project and did it all on his own.

  Blackwell gutted the boat from the insides and fitted her with brand-new motors and wiring. The navigation system was updated with state-of-the-art tech. Fresh paint was applied to the fiberglass body after he had stripped away the original, nasty coat. The interior was upholstered and a brand new bathroom and fancy entertainment system were installed. Even though he didn’t approve of how attached both his kids were to their phones and iPads, he installed a 4G Wi-Fi hotspot, just in case he ran out of ideas to keep them entertained.

  Boating and sea life were a
n integral part of Blackwell’s childhood, a passion both he and Alice had inherited from their parents. At some level, Blackwell hoped the boat would bring his own kids closer to him.

  Out on the river, Calista objected as Milo pranced around the boat to the sound of Sorry for Party Rocking by LMFAO.

  “Dad, why do we always get to listen to his music?”

  Blackwell kissed Calista’s head.

  “So not true. The words to every single song ever made by Taylor Swift are forever scarred on my head thanks to you, baby.”

  Calista took this as an invitation to break out in an overly emotional version of some Taylor Swift contribution.

  “Let’s make a rule, shall we?” Blackwell said.

  “What rule?”

  “We’ll alternate music every trip. Last one was mostly Cal’s music. This one we’ll just listen to Milo’s music. Then next one will be mine.”

  “Dad, your music is soooo lame! We can’t just listen to the Grateful Dead or Bob Marley all day. Arggh!”

  “Mock them now, kiddo. But when you’re older you’ll understand why your uncles Jerry and Bob will get you through college.”

  He tied the boat to a buoy in the middle of the river and started prepping the Maryland crab pot cage with bait.

  “Cal, baby, pass me the chicken legs from the icebox, will you?”

  Calista handed him the bait with far less disgust in her eyes than the last couple of times he’d made her hold the raw, severed limbs of poultry. He wanted to toughen her up a little.

  “What’s for lunch, Dad?”

  “Malaysian chili crab. Your Aunt Alice emailed me a recipe. It has just the right amount of chili for wimps like you.”

  Milo and Calista looked at him with intrigue as if he was inventing penicillin live for their amusement. He inserted the raw chicken legs into the cage, tied it to a rope, then threw it in the water. They loved watching him do it. The crab pot required far less work than a trotline, which meant they could play or talk while they waited for lunch to make its way into the cage.