by RD Gupta
As the canopy gave her the tug, Sarah felt some updraft from the wind that hit the cliff face and funneled it skyward. The targets in the truck were unaware of her approach.
She got the angle on the truck like a defensive back lining up a tackle downfield and positioned the parasail for the terminal maneuver. Manipulating the guidelines with her thumbs, she used her teeth to pull the pins on the grenades while holding the safety spoons fast as the truck rose up to meet her.
And in a move that would go into Delta lore, she yanked hard on the right guideline that spiraled her up and around. For a split second, she was suspended above the hood of the truck, looking down at four al-Qaeda brethren gaping up at her, including the driver she’d compromised a week ago. Before they could react, she yanked the cutaway handles on her harness. This released her from the canopy and put her into a six-foot free-fall, and she landed on both feet on the hood of the truck. She lunged over the windshield. For a tenth of a second, her eyes locked with Bannihammad’s as she dropped the two grenades at the terrorist’s feet before lunging off the vehicle and hitting the ground in a roll. She drew up into a fetal position, offering her back to the retreating truck as a short stream of frantic Arabic was spoken. Then the two blasts went off, sending a shock wave against her spine like the hoof of a pissed-off mule.
As debris fell around her, she gingerly raised her head to see the burning carcass of the truck veer off the road. Then the gas line ruptured, and a mushroom cloud rose in the sky.
A moment later she heard the detonation cord erupt on the far side of the mesa as the kill team closed the loop.
Slowly she picked herself up and surveyed the burning funeral pyre that held Ahmed Bannihammad, brother of one of the five hijackers on United Flight 175 that had slammed into the South Tower.
“Another one down,” she said to the wind.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bridgemount Yacht Club
New York City
Present Day
“Sam, another Blue Label on the rocks, if you please.” The bartender nodded his acknowledgement to Jarrod and began mixing the fresh cocktail. He was sitting at the gargantuan bar of the Bridgemount Yacht Club on a barstool so high that you needed a rope and crampons to climb up to your seat.
“The Bridgemount,” or “The Bridge” as its members knew it, was an enclave of staggering indulgence probably not seen since the time of the Vanderbilts. The large bay windows overlooked New York Harbor, and the rustic wide-plank hardwood floors were fashioned from the hull of the seventeenth-century British Warship HMS Resolution. Various eighteenth-century French Savonnerie rugs adorned the floors, while the handmade furniture—from the rare semicircle chaise in the lobby to the settee with gold-trimmed mahogany in the men’s parlor—was all courtesy of Karges. Even the paintings on the walls included originals from the likes of Matisse, Cézanne, and Caravaggio.
“Jarrod, haven’t seen you here in a while. How’s Blackenford treating you? Have they made you a partner yet?” Jarrod turned around to see Trent Metcalf, a fellow banker at a rival firm who was decked out in his usual Hugo Boss with an annoying pink pocket square. Jarrod’s view was that pink was a color that only a few select alpha males could pull off, and Trent wasn’t one of them.
“Haven’t made the cut yet but still in the running. Just thought I’d take a break before some options expire on Friday. How are things over at Caldwell?”
“Not bad. It’s been a great quarter, in fact. Looking to finally crack the nine club this year. Got a ‘64 Ferrari GTO to reward myself.”
The “nine club” had nothing to do with a golf handicap or a social gathering place. It was a reference to Bridgemount members whose compensation in a year had at least nine digits. Astoundingly, at this club, there were plenty who took their breaths in that rarefied atmosphere, along with more tens than one might imagine. While the generic “high net worth individual”—a hackneyed phrase that meant rich person—would often buy themselves a new Mercedes or Porsche to flaunt their wealth, to be a “nine” meant passing them out to their kids as sweet-sixteen presents. Or replacing it with a shiny new one instead of incurring the inconvenience of replacing the spark plugs. Indeed, luxury vehicles didn’t warrant a blink of an eye for this crowd, who had their own stretch limos at their disposal. It took talk of buying an island or underwriting an African coup to garner attention.
“Good to hear, Trent. What brings you to the Bridge this evening?”
“Meeting a prospect who just flew in from Egypt via South Beach. Given the turmoil in Europe and the Middle East, he’s looking to move his top trading accounts to us, and I’m here to close the deal. This guy owns a dozen factories and textile mills across North Africa and in the EU. He’s gonna push me over the top for sure.”
Jarrod put on the game face he used daily: smiling and being attentive instead of asking, Do you work at being a total a-hole or does it just come naturally? He wondered about the social impact of taking his drink and pouring it over Trent’s oversize head. Not a rapid violent spill, but a steady stream akin to watering a plant that would allow the liquor to soak into Trent’s overly moussed hair. He smiled as the fantasy became fully visualized. Finally, he’d had enough and said, “Well, good luck with that, Trent. I have to go touch base with those gents over there.” And with that, he leaped off the bar stool, leaving the talking press release behind.
Jarrod strode toward the big bay window as the setting sun illuminated the armada of floating palaces moored in the private slips. Even for Jarrod, who frequently rubbed elbows with some of the elite on Wall Street, it was hard to get his brain around how much wealth was concentrated in this few acres of ocean front real estate. Two decades of hedge fund growth had spawned wealth of such enormity that a group of nines had peeled off from the New York Yacht Club to build the Bridgemount so they could leave the old money riffraff behind.
Jarrod recalled the story of J. P. Morgan. John Pierpont Morgan had been a driving force of American industry and finance. He put together General Electric, United States Steel, the American railroad system, and during the financial Panic of 1893, crafted a Wall Street syndicate to loan the US government enough gold to remain solvent. When he died in 1913, his estate was valued at $40 million—a staggering sum at the time. Yet when he heard the number about Morgan’s wealth, John D. Rockefeller was reported to have sniffed, “And I thought he was a rich man.”
That captured the attitude of the nines and tens toward the rest of the world, especially the old money of New York. To the nines and tens, they were no longer relevant. The nines and tens were the new masters of the universe capable of creating wealth by exploiting the anomalies of the financial markets so fast, and so cleverly, that clients flocked to the outsized returns they generated. Inherited wealth had become passé in this enclave of quants, traders, and i-bankers, who were disdainful of names like Rockefeller, Mellon, DuPont, Firestone, and pretty much everyone else.
Jarrod was walking toward two of the nines now—Franklin Spinowitz, who was jawboning with Randall Bischoff by the window. Managing partners of their own boutique firms, Spinowitz was into Manhattan real estate, Bischoff was into fixed income securities, and they were both bridge playing partners with William Blackenford. If anyone knew of anything concerning William’s malady, they would. Jarrod mused that the two of them could collectively be called an “eighteen.”
“Why, Jarrod, my boy!” bellowed Spinowitz. “Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays!”
“Ah, yes, Jarrod,” greeted Bischoff. “Good of you to show the Blackenford flag! Where is that boss of yours anyway? He’s gone missing for the last two Wednesday nights and busted our foursome. All Franklin and I could do was drink the night away!”
One thing they taught you in the CIA was “situational awareness.” That meant if you didn’t know what the true situation was, play along and act as if you did. And in that acting, you tried to extract the information you were after. So he cranked out a smile and said, “I kn
ow, I know. He told me to apologize to you gentlemen if I ran into you. He’s been underwater getting a deal done. That and communications into and out of his office has been spotty because his secretary Rosita—you know Rosita?”
They both nodded.
“Yes, well, sadly Rosita has been dealing with some heavy issues related to her son.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “Drugs, jail, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, no,” replied a sorrowful Spinowitz.
“What a shame,” chimed in Bischoff. “And she is such a sweet soul.”
Jarrod nodded. “That she is. And as you know, she’s William’s comm link to the outside world. So sorry you didn’t get the word.”
“Don’t give it a second thought, my boy,” said a paternal Spinowitz. “Just tell him we’ll see him Wednesday night.”
“Will do.” He adroitly extricated himself, not wanting to be pulled into dinner with these rich but vacuous men. That would be an insufferable evening.
He stepped out onto the boardwalk of the dock and drank in the air of the early evening. After a few breaths, he felt the irritation start to ebb. He was always struck by how so many of the nines were empty vessels. While one would expect some intellectual depth would accompany the ability to accumulate staggering wealth, in fact that was rarely the case. Then his eyes fell on the row of mega yachts moored along the dock and things started to come back into focus for him. It was dusk and the harbor lights along the dock had just been illuminated.
He decided to stroll down the boardwalk to where the firm’s yacht—the Valkyrie—was moored. From stem to stern, it was exquisite in every detail. Created by the famed designer Richard W. Roseman, it featured a main salon of teak-paneled bulkheads, a Steinway grand, and a gas fireplace where William’s favorite Pissarro hung over the mantle.
Jarrod had seen the firepower of the Valkyrie melt the resistance of the most hard-nosed client. Taking cocktails and hors d’oeuvres on the hardwood fantail while the sun set behind the New York skyline was an experience that lowered defenses like no other.
It was hard to say which toy William coveted the most—the boat or the Gulfstream jet. Jarrod definitely would go with the boat.
The prow of the Valkyrie jutted regally above the boardwalk, imposing as always. But then Jarrod saw something curious. The interior lights were on. He peered down the walkway and saw the gangway was deployed. He knew that a Filipino steward named Manolo lived on board as a caretaker-security man, but the rest of the crew lived onshore unless the boat was at sea. He approached the gangway and heard voices before a string of people began to emerge from the aft deck.
The first one down the gangway was a thirty-something Waspish male model type wearing a navy blue blazer and holding a clipboard. He had a Cheshire cat grin. Next came a plump old woman, say seventy, in a designer dress that didn’t fit, followed by a plump, white-haired gentleman wearing a well-trimmed moustache, a tweed jacket, and a Trilby hat. They, too, were smiling broadly as they descended the gangway.
“It is absolutely exquisite!” gushed the plump woman. “I won’t change a thing. Well, the drapes perhaps, and the china service, but to have an original designed by Richard Roseman!”
“The only seventy-meter in the world designed by him,” said Blue Blazer.
“Can’t wait to take her out on the high seas and open up those engines. Those krauts really know how to goose the horsepower.”
“And the Pissarro!” chortled the woman. “I would’ve bought the boat just for that!”
Manolo, the steward, wearing a rather pained expression, appeared at the top of the gangway and brightened somewhat when he laid eyes on Jarrod. “Why, Meester Stryker. So good to see you. Come to say good-bye to the Valkyrie?”
Blue Blazer and the plump couple turned, noticing him for the first time.
Jarrod’s thought was, “Good-bye? What do you mean, say good-bye? Who the hell are you people?” But the Agency training kicked in again, and he turned on the charm once more. “Hard to do, Manolo, but it was always more than just a boat to me. But where are my manners?” He stuck out his hand to Blue Blazer. “Jarrod Stryker with Blackenford Capital.”
A dainty squeeze. “Jonathan Petrie with Excelsior Yachts. Oh, and may I present Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Portmann.”
Hands were shaken all round as Jarrod searched his memory banks. “Arthur Portmann? The, ah, sausage king?”
Mr. Plump beamed. “That would be me! Although this beauty is a retirement present to the missus and myself. We’re gonna take her around the world.”
Jarrod turned to the Sausage Queen. “Alone at sea with a beautiful woman. It doesn’t get better than that, does it?”
She flushed and said, “My, my, Arthur, we really must invite this young man to the shake-down cruise.”
“I don’t see why,” replied Sausage King. “Sounds like he’s shaking us down already!”
Har! Har! Har! Har!
Jarrod joined in the chorus of ridiculous belly laughs while repressing an urge to vomit.
“If you folks are headed back, I’ll walk with you. As Manolo said, I just came by to pay my respects. She’s a gorgeous boat.”
“That she is,” agreed the Sausage Rex.
So the four of them bade farewell to a forlorn Manolo and headed back to the clubhouse. Jarrod steered the conversation to their purchase of the Valkyrie. Oh, they had been looking to trade up from their fifty-meter yacht—the Piccolo—in anticipation of their round-the-world expedition for some time, but just hadn’t found anything they liked. But then Jonathan got wind of the Valkyrie coming on the market, and they’d snapped it up.
As they reached the clubhouse, Mr. Sausage escorted the Sausage Queen to the powder room while Jarrod assumed—as best he could—a body posture that imparted the message, Gosh-golly-wow, Behind this manly, athletic shell, I’m really ready for some switch hitting. Jonathan picked up on it straightaway, sending his own message in return. And with his guard down, Jarrod gently inquired in a conspiratorial tone, “Say, Jonathan—may I call you Jonathan?”
“Of course.”
“Say, I was just curious. What does something like the Valkyrie go for these days?”
“Well, rule of thumb is a million dollars per meter. At seventy meters, you can do the math. But then you throw in the Pissarro, and the fact it’s the only seventy-meter Roseman-designed vessel on the high seas…”
“And, all in?”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Well, you didn’t get this from me, but ninety-seven million, all in.”
Jarrod whistled. “That’s a lot of sausage.”
“You can say that again. Looks like my clients are returning. What do you say we, uh…”
Jarrod stuck out his card. “Sure. Call me sometime.”
Jonathan held it as if it were a polished emerald. “Will do. Definitely.”
Jarrod carried two sets of business cards. One with his cell number and direct line on it. The other without. Jonathan got the one that fed into Gwen.
The king and queen reappeared, and together with Jonathan, bid their farewells.
Once they disappeared, Jarrod sagged against the clubhouse wall. At least the instructors at the Farm would have given him and A+ for being the chameleon to extract the information. But what a thunderbolt! The Valkyrie and the Pissarro sold! William would sooner part with his kidneys. So what the hell was going on?
Somewhat dizzy, he headed back through the clubhouse. He was in the foyer en route to the driveway when a voice behind him said, “Mr. Stryker?”
He turned and saw a trim, fiftyish man in a black blazer with the Bridgemount crest on the pocket. The salt-and-pepper hair framed a square face he recognized but couldn’t place exactly.
A hand extended. “Michael Wheaton. Executive director of the Bridgemount.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”
“No problem. If you are not in a hurry, I wondered if I might impose for a few minutes of your time.”
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“Why, certainly. With regard to …?”
“Let’s go to my office. It’s more comfortable—and private—there.”
Jarrod followed him down the hall, unable to shake the feeling he was being taken to the principal’s office. Somewhat ironically, he walked past the portrait of William Blackenford, one of three past presidents of the Bridgemount Yacht Club, smiling imperially down at him.
They entered the inner sanctum of the executive director’s lair, which was absolutely full of nautical regalia. A big portrait of an America’s Cup race and an antique helm wheel were plastered on the wall, while a brass telescope rested by the bay window. Jarrod guessed Mr. Executive Director probably used it to watch nubile babes sunbathing on mega yacht row.
Wheaton sat down behind an antique desk that was probably pinched from Versailles or somewhere like that, but Jarrod was mightily unimpressed. The board paid this guy maybe a half mil a year to keep the bar stocked and the Persian rugs vacuumed, but he was just hired help and a rounding error to the nines and tens who populated this place.
With a hand, he motioned for Jarrod to sit.
“So,” Jarrod began, as he sat down, “what can I do for you, Mr. Wheaton?”
Wheaton leaned back in the throne-like Chesterfield chair and began, deferentially, “Well, as you probably are aware, the Bridgemount has two kinds of memberships. Individual and corporate. Individual memberships are 2.5 million for initiation and twenty-five thousand a month dues, while corporate initiation is 5 million and a hundred thousand a month in dues.”
“Yes, but as I understand the bylaws, the valet parking is free.”
Wheaton gave a polite chuckle. “And don’t forget the complimentary beer nuts on the bar.”
“That’s why I come here. Now that we’ve established the numbers and perks, where is this going, Mr. Wheaton?” Amazing. He’d only known this prick for less than four minutes and already disliked him intensely.
Wheaton cleared his throat. “Well, this is somewhat awkward for me as William Blackenford is one of our past presidents, after all. I have sent him some private letters about this but have not received any response, so I wondered if I might impose on you to raise the issue with Mr. Blackenford. Discreetly, of course.”