Lachkovic selected a news channel; a chiselled and tanned Rob Turner and a big-haired and big-breasted Carmen Iniesta were midway through re-hashing the little they knew about the world’s biggest news story.
CUE ROB:
‘Carmen, we’ve received a lot of emails and texts from viewers concerned about rumours circulating through social media outlets that the need to find one billion dollars in cash will empty banks. Hashtag Run-On-The-Banks is trending. Is that a possibility?’
CUT TO CARMEN:
‘Well Rob, a few irresponsible radio shock-jocks have labelled this ransom demand as an attack on America’s banking system, but the truth is, if that’s the goal, it’s not going to work.’
WIDE SHOT:
‘How so?’
CUT TO BANK GRAPHIC:
‘It’s true most individual banks would fail to meet the demand for even just one million dollars in cash within such a tight timeframe, but if this ransom demand is met, the cash will come from the twelve Federal Reserve Banks, and between them they hold more than two trillion dollars.’
CUT TO ROB:
‘What about the cash to be dropped at locations around the world?’
CUT TO CARMEN:
‘Well Rob, interestingly, more than half of all US currency is held outside of the United States, however, it’s more than likely that, rather than add the variables that would come with involving foreign banking systems, the money would still be sourced from the Federal Reserve and flown direct to the various locations around the world. That’s if the ransom is paid.’
‘Damned if it does, damned if it doesn’t.’ EAD Porter said. ‘The government is in an impossible position. If it doesn’t pay up, the administration, and the country as a whole, will be branded heartless. If the government does pay, well, the political fallout will be unimaginable. The stench of either scenario will linger for decades.’
Porter looked into Breckinridge’s eyes, then into Jamieson’s. He could see they got it. But he summed up the situation anyway. ‘We’re screwed.’
A small nod from Jamieson. An almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes from Breckinridge.
Porter arched an eyebrow. ‘And as no one bought us dinner first ...’
Both agents smiled, thinly: Jamieson probably because the Joel Silver style dialogue struck a chord, Breckinridge almost certainly because she knew how to work a male-dominated workplace.
Porter placed his hand on the file containing Breckinridge’s report. ‘I think what you’re suggesting is worth looking into,’ he said. ‘The question is, where to start looking?’ Porter picked up the folders on the right side of his desk. ‘Here are a few suggestions.’ He handed the folders to Breckinridge. ‘Copies of reports from a number of field offices. Interesting reading. Let’s see where this takes us. Baltimore’s been informed of the temporary transfer of you both. Report directly to me.’
Mrs Joosten, EAD Porter’s secretary, was waiting with some paperwork and details of accommodation she had booked for Breckinridge and Jamieson. They had expected to be allocated desks in an open-plan space, but Mrs Joosten led them to an actual office: two desks and a window. Jamieson was still in Cheshire Cat mode when they’d sat opposite each other to read the contents of the files.
Breckinridge looked up first. Waited.
Jamieson sat back. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think we turn over some stones.’
15. EYE OF THE STORM
Tamara didn’t mind the snoring, she found it curiously comforting, like listening to an approaching thunderstorm while tucked up safe in bed.
‘It’s like a Tyrannosaurus Rex choking on a bleeding Harrier Jump Jet.’
On the other hand, the stage-whispered grumbling from the other patients was getting on her nerves.
Tamara’s roommate, Mel, was oblivious to both the snoring and the sniping. Mel was propped up in bed, headphones over ears, engrossed by the BBC’s late-night news coverage of events in Austria. The constant repetition and duplication and the absence of any unrelated stories had bored, then irritated Tamara hours ago—after all, this was London, not Washington, and the American Vice President was just one man on a planet of billions—so she had decided on sleep.
But incessant huffing and puffing, punctuated by loud tutting, was making slumber infeasible. Or was it unfeasible? Wordplay wasn’t helping.
Tamara threw back the covers and swung out of bed. A twinge above her knee reminded her she had stitches in her leg. She gingerly padded past the temporarily unattended nurses’ station to the private room at the end of the ward, then followed the strip of subdued late-night lighting spilling from the hallway towards the bed. The elderly occupant lay asleep on her back. Up close, the snoring was less endearing.
A gentle nudge of the old woman’s arm made no difference to her raspy guttural rumble. A second poke produced a couple of rapid snorts, then a gurgling growl, which altered pitch, intensified, then became the frenzied throttling of a gaggle of geese. And a large duck. With bronchitis.
Tamara stretched out a palm, eased her fingers under the woman’s shoulder and gently lifted, hoping the old dear would instinctively continue the roll and turn onto her side—that used to work with Tamara’s Aunt Tilly.
The snoring abruptly stopped, replaced by a sleepy croak. ‘Galina?’
Tamara froze.
Silence.
Then rain began tapping at the window.
Thin eyelids fluttered, then opened. A small cough. ‘Galina?’
‘I … eh, sorry … um, I’m Tamara.’ She felt herself shrink from the scrutiny of dark eyes.
The old woman wriggled and pushed herself up onto her elbows. ‘Fix pillows please.’
‘Oh, you have an accent.’ Tamara cringed—state the bloody obvious Tam why don’t you. She pulled at the pillows and puffed them up.
‘You also.’ The old woman leaned back, a wide grin somehow adding even more creases to her well-lived-in broad face. ‘Everyone has accent. For me, Bulgarian. For you, Cockney.’
‘Actually I’m originally from Richmond. South-west London. Cockneys are from the East End.’
A gravelly cackle. ‘You all Cockney to me.’ She waved at the armchair next to her bed. ‘Sit. We have nice visit. Call me Baba Yana.’
‘I eh, should be getting ba—’
‘Sit.’
Baba Yana hadn’t raised her voice, or altered her tone, or changed her expression, or made any gestures, but Tamara did as she was told, her teenage pluck no match for the confident presence of age. Not sure what to say next, Tamara defaulted to the weather. She nodded towards the window. ‘I quite like the rain. When it rains properly. Not keen on that can’t-make-up-its-mind nonsense. If I’m going to get wet, I’d rather get it over with.’
‘My granddaughter …’ Baba Yana pointed to her heart. ‘Galina. She same your age. No patience.’
‘Is Galina in London too, or is she still in Bulgaria?’
A melancholy washed across Baba Yana. ‘No, Galina leave Bulgaria when your age. For new life. Gone long time.’ She sighed. Then a small smile tugged at her mouth. ‘But she return soon. I have promise.’
16. INFLUENCE
Washington was a metonym permeated by metonymy: the President and his staff were The White House, the United States Congress was Capitol Hill, the US Department of Defense was The Pentagon, and the lobbying industry was K Street. Although the most powerful lobbying firms no longer headquartered themselves on K Street, many hadn’t moved far. Lachkovic & Associates had chosen Connecticut Avenue, still just a ten-minute walk from the White House. And a ten-minute drive from the J Edgar Hoover Building. Breckinridge drove. Jamieson tapped Lachkovic & Associates into his phone:
… a bipartisan consulting firm ... devising tailored strategies to navigate the routes to influencing policies in the Executive Branch and in Congress ... coordinated advocacy that helps shape government actions ... our clients include major corporations, trade associations and non-profit organi
zations ... through our efforts, legislation has been passed, funds have been allocated, and policy has been implemented …
What the search engines didn’t list was the fact there were very few people of note, power, or celebrity in Washington (and beyond) who wouldn’t take a phone call from Ryan Lachkovic. Simultaneously Republican, Democrat and neither, Lachkovic was the lobbyist’s lobbyist. A smart, charming city-types’ man’s man. How a lumberjack would look if lumberjacks wore Armani. Not handsome, but well-groomed, stylish and self-assured. Lachkovic’s great appeal—his great gift—wasn’t to be the you you’d always wished you were, but to be the friend you’d always wished you had.
And it transpired, in the right/wrong hands, that was real power. A power that oozed down to the gatekeepers: ‘I’m sorry, Mister Lachkovic has left for the day.’ The receptionist smiled the dead-eyed smile of a bastard-child of a supermodel and Cerberus. ‘I’d have to check with Mister Lachkovic’s executive assistant, but …’ As she gazed at her monitor, the cold-steel beauty pursed her lips, which accentuated her already impossibly defined cheekbones. ‘I believe there’s fifteen minutes available next Thursday.’ She smiled at the FBI agents. ‘Or thirty minutes the following Tuesday.’
Jamieson glanced at Breckinridge. Oh-oh. He moved a hand to the small of Breckinridge’s back—too late. Gracie moments didn’t happen often, but when they did …
‘You see this?’ Breckinridge slapped her FBI identification on the reception desk.
‘Yes, you showed i—’
‘I’m a federal agent. It’s a vocation. I don’t do it for money. If I cared about money I’d still be a lawyer. So if some corrupt son-of-a-bitch whispers in another corrupt son-of-a-bitch’s ear, and I get grief, maybe even fired, for charging you with conspiracy to commit treason, I won’t give a damn. I’ll just go back to making obscene amounts of money as a lawyer. What that means …’ Breckinridge made a show of looking at the bimbo-raptor’s nametag. ‘… Constance, is the thickness of your veneer of untouchability is measured on a subatomic scale. So, tell me where Mister Lachkovic is, right now, or you’ll find yourself in an orange jumpsuit.’
The receptionist actually gulped. And Jamieson stifled a smile and made what he hoped was a cold-eyed stare to back up Breckinridge’s brinksmanship.
The Carpenters’ Club was established in 1888 to promote mutual enlightenment and improvement for its membership of prominent political and social figures. The membership numbered thirty-eight: one gentleman of note for each of the states in the Union. The following year, with North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana and Washington ratifying the United States Constitution, it had been agreed to invite four more gentlemen to join. Membership increased again in 1890 when the former territories of Idaho and Wyoming achieved statehood, and again six years later (Utah), and again in 1907 (Oklahoma) and in 1912 (New Mexico and Arizona).
Then, the Great War. And the world changed. Monarchies and empires fell, and new dynasties rose as industrialisation increased. During post-dinner brandy and cigars, conversations within the Carpenters’ Club became dominated by the inevitability of continuing change. But that didn’t mean there had to be an end to their private world of Cognac-and-Montesino-fuelled mutual enlightenment and improvement. They would merely preserve it; encase it in another layer. And so, 1920 saw the Carpenters’ Club recruit twenty fresh members, members who reflected and understood the changing world. They would be the dynamic face of a new Carpenters’ Club, a Carpenters’ Club focused on the advancement of innovation. And to keep that spirit of modernism flourishing, a new member would be recruited each year.
Meanwhile, the original gentlemen of note continued their mutual enlightenment and improvement in their club-within-a-club. They were The 48.
Over time, the original members of The 48 were claimed by the Grim Reaper: three automobile accidents; one riding accident; four boating accidents; one unfortunate incident involving a former professional boxer; one jealous wife; two jealous mistresses; one jealous pool boy; and one far too enthusiastic hooker. Although technically that death should be included with the variety of natural causes the rest succumbed to.
Replacements for The 48 came from those groomed within the extended Club, and those members showing the most promise formed their own elite group; The 48 dubbed them The Heirs. And of the latest batch of successors among The Heirs, Ryan Lachkovic was next in line.
Oliver Jamieson had been prepared for a scrap with another gatekeeper. But the charcoal-grey-suited Englishman named Geoffrey who greeted them had smiled warmly and asked Jamieson and Breckinridge to follow him.
The Carpenters’ Club took its name from Carpenters’ Hall, the two-storey Georgian-style brick building in Philadelphia where the First Continental Congress had met. The Club occupied a much grander property: the former residence of a founder member, set in an acre of sculpted gardens in the Dupont Circle neighbourhood of DC. The architect’s brief had been to deliver both an elegant home and a superlative setting for entertaining, and the design reflected that with open lines of sight from the vestibule to a series of wide-doored reception rooms on the ground floor.
‘For a time this mansion was the hub of the Washington social scene,’ explained Geoffrey as he led Breckinridge and Jamieson to one of the unoccupied reception rooms. ‘The Ballroom, the Library, the Periodicals Room, the Writing Room and the Billiards Room are all above us. The offices and meeting rooms on this floor are named after the twelve colonies to send delegates to the First Continental Congress.’ Geoffrey turned his head briefly to give the FBI agents a conspiratorial look, ‘Some of our members like to refer to the ground floor gentlemen’s restroom as Georgia.’
Jamieson shot a querying squint at Breckinridge.
She leaned in and half-whispered, ‘Georgia didn’t send delegates because they wanted the British to help them with some troublesome Injuns.’
‘This,’ continued Geoffrey, ‘is the Hall of Honours. All are recipients of the Carpenters’ Club Award for Meritorious Contributions.’ He fluttered fingers at the framed photographs lining the walls.
Jamieson recognised a few of the faces: world-renowned politicians, Nobel Prize winning scientists, best-selling authors, celebrity entrepreneurs and two musicians famous for fighting famine in Africa. Jamieson wondered how good Geoffrey was with popular culture.
‘Here we are.’ Geoffrey waved at an open doorway. ‘This is the Pennsylvania Room. Mister Lachkovic will be with you directly. A beverage while you wait? Presumably alcohol consumption is still frowned upon whilst on duty, but we can offer you a wide selection of coffees, teas, juices and mineral waters.’
‘I’m good.’ Breckinridge walked into the meeting room.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Jamieson said.
Geoffrey smiled, dipped his head and shoulders in a subtle micro-bow, which segued into a smooth turning motion, and he strode back through the Hall of Honours.
Jamieson stepped into the Pennsylvania Room and whistled appreciation: white marble floor, a fireplace with a huge green marble mantelpiece, and a gilded ceiling, with plush furniture to match. Jamieson had no clue what the furniture styles were—the only alternative he had for plush was swanky—but he recognised the smell of old leather and older money.
Breckinridge was trying out some of the leather; she sat in a very comfortable looking armchair facing the door. Jamieson thought of another word: luxurious. Then Breckinridge’s eyes fixed on something over his shoulder.
Jamieson turned.
A tall quarterback-in-a-suit stepped forward offering a large hand. ‘I’m Ryan Lachkovic, welcome to the Carpenters’ Club.’
Jamieson reached out. For a half a heartbeat it felt like he was touching a ghost, then the other man matched Jamieson’s grip perfectly.
‘Impressive,’ Jamieson said.
‘The room or the handshake?’ Lachkovic smiled.
‘Eh, both.’ Damn that eh, thought Jamieson.
‘I can’t take credit for the room, but I
’ve pressed a lot of flesh to perfect that mirroring technique.’ Lachkovic smiled again. ‘I’m lobbying for it to be accepted as an Olympic sport.’
‘What about the charming candour?’ Breckinridge said, rising from the armchair.
‘All part of my snake-oil sneakiness.’ Another Lachkovic smile.
Breckinridge’s ID arced between them. ‘I’m Special Agent Breckinridge, this is Special Agent Jamieson. We’re with the FBI and part of the inter-agency task force investigating the abduction of the Vice President of the United States of America.’
‘So I gathered from Constance. She’s still a little ... flustered. Conspiracy to commit treason?’ Lachkovic tutted. ‘I had to assure the poor girl that Article Three of the Constitution clearly delineates treason as levying war against the United States.’
Breckinridge deadpanned the rest of the definition: ‘Or in adhering to our enemies, give them aid and comfort.’
‘Quite.’ Lachkovic eased into a more serious demeanour. ‘Please, sit,’ he said, gesturing towards a trio of chairs surrounding a small table that was as ornate as it was impracticable.
Lachkovic sat. ‘How may I help you?’
As Breckinridge lowered herself into a chair, she tossed out a name from the files they’d received from EAD Porter. ‘Dierk Wald.’
Well I’ll be, Jamieson thought. Just a flicker, but that was surprise he had just witnessed.
17. RECRUITMENT
10 years ago
The Glock was steady. As was the gaze behind it. Ryan Lachkovic recognised the face. There was a file at the side of his bed with photographs of that face. ‘Mister Wald,’ Lachkovic said. ‘This is … unexpected.’
Dierk Wald smiled. ‘I heard you wanted to meet.’
Lachkovic had been expecting a noticeable European accent, but Wald’s English was as mid-Atlantic as Lachkovic’s own. ‘That’s true. But in the middle of the night, with you perched on the end of my bed wasn’t what I had in mind. May I sit up?’
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 10