The Mac Ambrose Series: 1-3 (Boxed Set)

by HN Wake

  Swept along with the crowd of commuters, she stepped through the top entrance of the half-mile outdoor escalator and was carried down through Hong Kong’s Mid-Levels neighborhood, past restaurants and shops. At the bottom, she walked along Centrals’ open-air, elevated walkway, through the shopping arcade at the Heng Seng Bank and out over the frenetic traffic on Connaught Road. A faint sun peeked through the skyscrapers.

  She found her way to the MTR station escalator and rode it down, arriving along the red-tiled pass. She paid her fare, clicked through the turnstiles, and followed the signs to the A line. The crowd in the subway car was mostly uniformed school kids. A few older men—all in worn trousers, white socks, clean sneakers and jet black dyed sweeps of hair—sat in a row.

  She thought of Johnson. They had agreed to connect in a few days. She had assured him she would do whatever it took to kill the Alghaba deal. That promise was about to come true, she hoped.

  Outside Mong Kok Station in Kowloon was controlled chaos. The space overhead, reaching up ten floors, was congested with a bewildering array of scaffolding and signs. The signs were mostly in Chinese and came in every color and style—neon, printed, back lit—and advertised an impossible number of brands, consumers goods, salons, restaurants, and massage shops. On the street level, a heaving crowd streamed past. Nail salons puffed stringent wafts of alcoholic nail polish remover over the crowd. Peking Duck restaurants proudly displayed rows of unnaturally orange birds, their featherless carcasses dangling from long, stiff necks.

  Passing along the stalls of the pedestrian mall known as the Ladies Market, she blended in well. Hong Kong and Mong Kok in particular were extremely cosmopolitan, a melting pot of nationalities.

  In the middle of Sai Yeung Choi street, she stepped quickly into the entrance of the Pakpolee Commercial Centre, a 1980s lumbering, styleless block with a fake marble entrance. The small elevator creaked to the eighth floor and a hushed, windowless hallway. The sign on the third door read, Tianjin Importers Co., Ltd. An electronic bell announced her entrance.

  At the counter, the old man recognized her. He nodded, but didn’t smile. She reached into her courier bag and pulled out a plastic Ziploc. Inside was the bullet she had pulled from the thug, Abdul Izzah, in the Miri morgue. She set it down on the counter’s glass top along with two new hundred dollar bills.

  She pulled up the picture of the antique cardboard box with the flare gun print. “Is this bullet from this gun?”

  The old man pulled on plastic gloves and reached under his counter for a bottle of spray. He set out six paper towels in a pile over his glass counter, poured the bullet from the bag, and soaked it. Extra strength Lysol.

  He lifted the bullet and wiped it down. He looked at the photo, nodded, and said, “Allied gun, World War 2. They make look like flare gun on box.”

  He pulled out a loupe, held it over the bullet, and examined it for a minute. “Yes. Yes. Old .45 ACP. Not in use now. Not common. Only few guns.” He pointed to her photo. “Like from something Liberator.”

  He dropped the bullet back in the Ziploc and handed it over to her.

  She said, “m goi.” Thank you.

  In her mind, she repeated it. M goi. M goi. She was one step closer to the truth.

  In the small confines of the elevator, the single conclusion pushed in on her from all sides. Josh Halloway had killed the thug, Abdul Izzah. Alghaba must have paid him.

  Then he had done a runner.

  Langley, VA

  Odom’s phone rang. He picked it up quickly. “Odom.”

  “It’s me.” It was Director Dunne. He spoke decisively. “When she checks in next, call her off the hunt.”

  “Wha—?” He bit his lips together; the word had shot out of his mouth. He wasn’t normally caught off guard and in the rare occasions when he was, he usually had the where-with-all to remain silent. But he hadn’t expected this directive.

  Dunne said, “I have a sense she’s closing in. Call her off.”

  “What…what will I say?”

  “Tell her we found him.”

  Odom stumbled again. His confusion got the better of him. “But we haven’t.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  “How will we find him?”

  “We’ll put someone else on it. Someone who isn’t so new to the Agency. Someone we can trust implicitly.”

  Odom remained silent.

  “Her involvement in this op is over.”

  Odom began to put the phone back on the cradle when he heard Dunne’s voice. He placed the phone back to his ear.

  “—did you hear me?” Dunne asked.

  “No, sir. I didn’t hear you. Please repeat.”

  “I said, once she’s off the op, have KL Station clean anyone who was with her in the jungle. Send the directive directly to Shipman. I don’t want any witnesses.”

  It was a kill directive. Dunne was ordering a kill directive. Of Mac Ambrose’s associates.

  Odom’s gaze focused on the lamp’s weak light, but this time he felt the heaviness of the office darkness pushing in on him, dense and ominous.

  Dunne barked, “Did you hear me that time, Odom?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead.

  38

  Hong Kong

  An hour later, Mac stepped into the hushed, marble lobby of the Exchange Square Building and crossed to the elevator bank. A crowd formed—mostly young men, in their thirties, carrying coffee, and dressed in tailored suits—just as the elevator doors slid open with a ping. She moved toward the back to observe, not comfortable yet with this crowd.

  At the thirtieth floor, she turned right toward the locked glass door, slid a security card through the reader, heard the lock click, and made her way around the large open plan floor. This floor was vastly different from the plush, hushed halls of Private Banking on twenty-first where millionaires invested their money. It was also vastly different from the raucous trading floor on twenty-fifth.

  Here on the Investment Banking floor, activity was muted; money was made in a polished and rarefied way. From their glass offices, Managing Directors—high flyers who walked among corporate giants, negotiated deals, bought equity, greased the wheels of commerce—watched over teams of young analysts researching and number crunching. Printers hummed, phones buzzed, and Xerox machines thumped as huge client prospectuses shuffled out. A few of the analysts had stayed through the night. Their eyes were bleary and their shirts wrinkled.

  She circled around the open plan and entered a long hall. With each step the noise levels dropped. At the end of the hall, she cornered to the right and the silence of the legal and compliance section enveloped her.

  Behind these glass walls, surrounded by mountains of documents, reserved lawyers studied contracts.

  A secretary said, “Go on in. She’s expecting you.”

  Meredith Coldwell commanded lightly, “Sit, sit.”

  Like a bashful student before a head mistress, Mac chose the seat opposite. Perhaps it was being so new, or her powerful position in the bank, but Meredith made Mac feel inferior.

  “Let’s talk about Alghaba,” Meredith said. “We need a game plan to get this damn bank to walk away from this damn deal.”

  Thirty minutes later, Meredith yelled out to the secretary, “Can you get Nazir Ramli on the line?”

  The phone rang once and Meredith hit the speaker button. “Nazir. Meredith. I’ve also got Mac Ambrose in the office with me. Have you got thirty minutes to go over our findings on Alghaba?”

  He grunted.

  “You there, Nazir?” She rolled her eyes at Mac, sharing her distaste of this rude man.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m in the middle of something, Meredith. This isn’t the best time. But I’ll stop what I’m doing for you. And whatever her name is. Mac what?”

  Meredith shook her head at his poor manners. “Mac Ambrose. She just returned from Miri. You know, the due diligence we requested?”

  “Yes. Yes. The ass rap
e. I hope she didn’t bother my client.”

  “They’re not a client yet, Nazir.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Meredith carried on, unruffled. “More to the point, we have proof that Alghaba is foresting well outside the boundaries set by the government.”

  “This is Malaysia. What proof?”

  Meredith looked down at the maps Mac had laid out and used her finger to help walk herself through it. “Mac was able to get up onto the mountain and take photos and do some GPS—“

  “Why don’t you just tie a noose on my tip and yank it--”

  “And we compared her findings to the documentation and permitted concessions provided in the client documents.” She traced her finger up and down along the map. “It’s clear Alghaba is significantly outside their legal concessions.”

  Nazir grunted again.

  “Second, they are foresting in prime, virgin rainforest—High Conservation Value Forest that is protected by international treaties and our own internal policies—as we’ve discussed.” Meredith turned her focus on the ceiling. “Third, they have almost no certification by any credible certification body that says they aren’t foresting in protected land. If they had some kind of third party verification we would have something to hide behind. But they don’t.”

  Outside, the sky was darkening with swirling, grey clouds. All of Mac’s senses were on high alert. This was make or break time.

  “Fourth, there are local land claims from the indigenous persons living on the land that are pending in the local courts. This is a serious issue for us. We can’t be seen to be supporting criminal activities that are endangering local communities.”

  Images of the Penan swept across Mac’s mind. The chief’s sad eyes. The red t-shirt looking out over the gash. Azly crying.

  Meredith continued. “And fifth, there are reports of physical abuse and rape by Alghaba employees who are arguably indentured slaves.

  “Sixth, we’ve got the PEP issue. One we haven’t even done our diligence on.”

  Nazir was quick to answer, “Not exactly PEP.”

  “The cousin is a crony of the provincial chief executive. It’s just icing on the reputational risk cake,” Meredith stated.

  Silence.

  “Look, Nazir, what I’m getting at here is that for any number of reasons this deal is a huge risk. You know as well as I do that this bank does not look too highly on reputational risks this significant. Further, I’ve made some calls around. None of the other Western investment banks will touch Alghaba--”

  Nazir blew up. “Are you fucking kidding me? Because some dumb-ass cunt goes wandering around —“

  “Nazir! Ratchet back your verbal ejaculations. You’re stepping over well-defined Human Resources lines.”

  He checked his volume. “This deal would bring in fifty million in fees to this bank.”

  A heavy mist was accumulating above Kowloon’s skyscrapers. It was dark and dense.

  Mac said in a low voice, “Orangutans.”

  Meredith looked up, gave her a questioning look and mouthed, “What?”

  On the speaker Nazir was saying, “I’ve worked on their CEO for over a year--”

  Mac interrupted Nazir. “Orangutans.”

  Nazir yelled. “Who the fuck is that? Mac, you stupid cow, what did you just say?”

  Meredith leaned in to the speaker, but Mac sat up tall, stopped her. “I said Alghaba is going to get to the orangutan park in under three months.”

  He yelled louder. “I don’t give a rat’s puckered ass.”

  Mac leaned in close to the speaker. “Your kids will never see an orangutan. They will be extinct if we allow companies like Alghaba to deforest at their current rate. It is completely, utterly unsustainable.”

  Nazir’s voice dropped to a sinister tone. “I don’t give a damn if my kids ever see orangutans. This is a fifty million dollar deal to the bank. I cannot believe this is happening. Do you realize I’m bringing Alghaba’s CEO to the gala tomorrow night?”

  With a steady gaze on Mac, Meredith’s tone was final. “Nazir, the risks are too extreme on this one. I’m recommending we do not proceed with this deal. Further, I’m going to recommend to New York that we divest from Alghaba out of private banking as well. I’m further recommending we no longer underwrite Alghaba bonds, and that we sell the twenty-five million in shares we have in-house.”

  Mac’s heart soared.

  Silence crackled on the speaker phone.

  Finally, Nazir asked, “What if Stuart doesn’t agree with you?”

  Meredith responded, “He has to. I’m the final say in the region on risk. I report up to New York. As long as I’m here, this deal is dead.”

  Nazir hung up.

  Mac sagged back against the chair. Relief rippled through her. Despite Alghaba’s efforts—the murder of Dominick French, the hiring of Josh to clean up—the deal was off.

  Mac had killed the deal.

  39

  Langley, VA

  The small, intent man let the glass door close softly behind him. He scanned the room, starting at the left wall and moving slowly over the heads of the analysts in the Asian Pacific, Latin American and African Analysis Division. His silent scrutiny produced a college football arena wave across the Hive as analysts looked up from screens. His gaze came to rest on the far western corner.

  Striding past the gaping analysts, his bleak face stilled fingers on keyboards. A wash of silence followed his wake. He stopped only when he reached the far corner where he cleared his throat.

  “Who is Joyce Terrell Tattle?” he said.

  Buried in his cubicle, Anatoli whispered, “Oh shit.”

  Joyce stood, faced the stranger, and felt the burn of a million stares. She thought, this was about Malay Petro Reliance.

  The small man’s temple veins bulged. “Come. With. Me.”

  Joyce set down her pen, stepped out of her cubicle, and followed his stiff figure back across the silent floor.

  I’m pretty sure this isn’t a promotion, she thought.

  The hallway was empty and silent. The long stretch felt foreboding. Her arms tingled against a wave of cold.

  He turned swiftly, “I need to know what you have on Malay Petro Reliance.”

  She glanced at his badge clipped to his shirt pocket, trying to read his name.

  “Frank Odom, Directorate of Operations,” he snipped. “Tell me what you have on Malay Petro Reliance.”

  Joyce swallowed. She told him the story and left nothing out. How she had learned about the shelf company from the original documents in the supermarket bag. How she had called the agent Hassan Talib in KL. How he had faxed her the bank account statements with the two million dollar deposit.

  Odom stood ramrod still, hands clasped behind his back, head bent slightly forward. When she reached the end of the story, he looked up. “Does your boss know about Hassan Talib?” he asked.

  “Neville O’Dore?”

  “Yes. Does O’Dore know about your communications with Talib?”

  She shook her head, afraid.

  “Does O’Dore know about the two million dollar deposit?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Who knows about the two million deposit?”

  She thought of Anatoli. “No one,” she lied. “I just found out today.”

  He measured her up and down with a look of indifference. “You’re fired. Get your things. Your access was rescinded ten minutes ago. Don’t get ugly. Just leave quietly.”

  He turned and strode off down the silent hallway.

  All eyes watched as Joyce lurched back across the Hive. No one spoke. Telephones rang unanswered. As she stepped into her cubicle, she started shaking. Her hands started first, then her knees quivered.

  Anatoli whispered, “What was that all about?”

  “I was just fired.”

  He stood abruptly. “Are you serious?”

  She nodded, stunned and speechless.

  “Because of the Malaysia shi
t?”

  She nodded again. She whispered, “Anatoli, I never told you anything. Tell them we’re barely civil to each other. Tell them you know nothing. Got it?”

  He nodded, his eyes wide. “Jesus, this shit can get scary up in here. What are you going to do?”

  “I have to clear out and get out.”

  “Jesus.”

  She pulled out her bag and started taking the paraphernalia down from the wall. She thought of something and picked up the phone, dialed the IT number.

  “Isaac Messenger.”

  “Hi. It’s me,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “Whatsup?”

  “I just got fired.”

  “What?”

  “Can you meet me in the parking lot?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  He was leaning against the Toyota in the blaring sun.

  Her lip quivered and she blinked back the sting in her eyes. Twenty-six percent, maybe twenty-three, she thought.

  She said, “Some total douche-bag just walked up to me and hauled me out into the hallway and asked me what I knew about Malay Petro Reliance. So I told him. Then he fired me.”

  “Jesus Christmas!” he exclaimed. “I mean, fuck-knuckle. Are you kidding me? All over that one company?”

  “I mean it has to be. It was the only thing he was interested in. I was on to something! Damn it, Isaac, I knew I was on to something.” Her anger took over and she began ranting. “Fucking ass-covering assholes. I mean, I’m digging into something, I’m doing my job. I find out this fucking shelf company had a deposit of two millio—“

  “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah, I just found out that the company got two million dollars into its account two weeks ago.”

  “Holy unbelievable.”

  “And next thing I know, this creepy guy is firing me.” Her emotions slipped back to despair. “I can’t believe I just got fired. What am I gonna do now? I’ve only been at the Agency for a year. What am I going to put on my resume? Holy shit, can I even put that I was at the Agency on my resume? Is that good or bad? Do people think you’re some kind of weird washed up spook when they see that on your resume? Are you allowed to, like, make up a cover story for your resume? Shit.” A tear dropped and she pushed it aside. A second followed.