by C. B. Carter
“As an examiner, you’ve been evaluating Washington Common Bank for the last ten months?”
“Yes.”
“And finally, Mr. Spain, in your position as examiner, you have timely access to the banks in-flow and out-flow data?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect, Mr. Spain, I think you’re our man. An associate of ours will be in touch in the next couple of days. You’ll recognize this associate because she will simply state the code words, ‘Project Northwest.’ This associate will give you a series of detailed tasks you are to perform for us each day.”
James looked up from having buried his face into the bed. “I’m not going to help you rob a bank, are you nuts? Everyone knows me.”
“My dear sir, you’ve already helped more than you can know. You certainly don’t think we would send you in with a mask from the local costume shop, a stick-up note, and a gun, do you? ‘Dear Teller, please give me the entire bank.’ This isn’t a strong-armed robbery. We’re talking billions of dollars, not thousands.” Mr. Maybe paused in mid-sentence, as if speaking of billions made him lose his train of thought.
“It’s all just data, Mr. Spain, dollar signs and numerals, but my client wants it. We don’t act like nor do we portend to be common thugs. You’re not going to help us rob a bank per se. You’re simply going to help us get what my client wants for free.”
James, thoroughly confused, felt his only recourse was to bury his face into the bloody comforter. He just needed a moment to process everything.
They had him, they knew everything about his job at the bank, and they were certainly knowledgeable of Bridget. He could feel the brittle scab over his brow grinding its way into his wound as he shook his head. The back and forth motion across the comforter aggravated the wound and it began to bleed.
As he let the last forty-five minutes wash over him, he realized a number of things.
The confusion was purposeful, the odd names of the assailants, the ‘help us rob a bank’ and in the same breath, ‘get a bank for free’ speech. The good cop, bad cop routine, inundated with piercing questions, absolute knowledge of his daily life, and that of his girl’s daily life. It all hit him as surreal.
He knew what was coming next. The answer was simple if you ask the right question: “What could he give them that they couldn’t get themselves?” They were obviously well-connected professionals. The answer: “Data!” More precisely—“inflow and outflow data,” as Mr. Maybe had claimed.
James’s brain worked overtime and he quickly saw an opportunity to get out. He didn’t know if it would work, but it was worth a shot.
His head shot up as he spurted out, “But I’m all beat up. I have at least two cuts above my brow. I’m sure I have a black eye and my lip is busted. When I return to work, I will be under instant suspicion and watched closely. You don’t know the management. My appearance will not be tolerated. I’ll probably be asked to leave and investigated, at a minimum, by my mere appearance alone. I will be an eyesore, literally. You stupid fucks, you’ve damaged the package—isn’t that what they say in the circles you work in?”
As if on cue, Mr. Wright produced a Seattle Times, turned to a page with the headline, and began to read it as he walked across the room. He placed it on the bed, so James had a clear view: ‘OTS Agent in Car Accident.’
James took notice of the headline, read the quick article, and sighed as despair took his breath away. According to the article, he had been in a car accident. Police stated it’s a no-fault accident, a tire blew or some other mechanical failure. He simply lost control of the '69 Boss 429 Mustang and found one of the only wooden telephone poles in downtown Seattle.
He noted the date, April 19th, 2008. He’d been captive for less than a day. He damned the precision of Mr. Wright. Where was the ineptness of the government when you needed it? Today was Saturday and he could return to work on Monday amongst sincere remarks of: “You look horrible, but thank God you’re okay.” In thought, he doubted God had anything to do with this. Everyone would see it as it appeared: James had been in an accident and was lucky to be alive.
Moments later, without cue, Mr. Wright picked up another paper. “This one wasn’t published,” he said as he placed another article in front of James, this time turning to a page that read, OTS Agent and Girlfriend Die in Car Accident. James at once got the gist.
“Is Bridget okay?” James asked, fearful of the answer.
“Yes, completely unharmed. She is worried, though, but she doesn’t have a clue about any of this.”
“Did you wreck my Mustang?” James demanded.
“Well, of course, Mr. Spain. It’s vital to our plan that you appear to have been in an accident. Wouldn’t be very convincing if you drove up to the bank with an intact, undamaged Mustang, now would it?” Mr. Wright chided.
“It was a classic, only 858 of ‘em made,” James said as he buried his head back into the comforter, hiding his moist eyes.
Mr. Maybe cleared his throat. “Mr. Spain, I will bid you adieu, and remind you that ‘Project Northwest’ are the code words. When you hear the code words, you should do exactly as the person tells you.”
Mr. Maybe stood. “You’ll recognize her, as she’s an albino, though she does dye her hair, so I’m not certain that factual bit of data helps. Her eyes, though, are unmistakable, almost a translucent blue-gray color, just mesmerizing, and the creamy, snowy-white complexion of her skin, she reminds me of an adult version of Snow White. Just do as she says and in five or six weeks, this will all be behind us. Good day, Mr. Spain.”
Mr. Maybe handed the iPhone back to Mr. Wright, who carefully slid it into his coat jacket. He dusted off invisible dust from his sleeve and, as if he were some silent obscurity, left the room without saying a word. James was astounded by the business-like, glib fashion they acted toward this whole situation. Am I really going to help them steal from a bank? What does that even mean?
Wright stood and began collecting the newspapers. “One final order of business, Mr. Spain. We have you bugged. Your condominium, Ms. Davies’ car, her apartment, your email, home, and cell phones are all bugged. If by chance you find one of our devices, I’d strongly suggest you leave it. In fact, if you tamper with any of my equipment I will take it as a personal insult. Also, know we check your garbage, both office and home, so let’s not write any little notes, shall we? Finally, you should presume we have access to everything you own and we will be checking for notes, calls, emails, et cetera, et cetera, in your home and work. It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway: don’t fuck with me.”
Mr. Wrong stood, pulled a pocket-knife from his left pant pocket. James, seeing this, started to squirm, but couldn’t move.
For the first time, Mr. Wrong spoke. His voice was deep, resonating, and commanding, but it had a soothing tone to it. Simply put, one didn’t know if Mr. Wrong was going to make sweet, sweet love to you or fuck you up. “I don’t want to cut you, but if you squirm—accidents have been known to happen.” He placed his hand on James’s left shoulder and simply claimed, “This never happened,” as he cut the rope that hogtied James’s neck.
James immediately straightened his sore spine, relieved for the freedom of movement. He sat on the heels of his feet as he watched Mr. Wright and Mr. Wrong collect and place the coffee cups, along with the newspapers, into a garbage bag and exit the room with the mannerism of visiting a long lost friend. They even wished him a good day and good luck.
“Remember, this never happened,” said Mr. Wrong as he closed the door.
* * * *
James at once brought his hands to the front of his body and slipped them free. He stretched out on the floor and waited for the cramps in his legs to ease before he untied his ankles. He stood and had no idea what to do. He wanted to run. He wanted to collapse on the bed. Unable to decide, he compromised and paced from one end of the room to the other, then sat on the edge of the bed, followed by more pacing, followed by more sitting, all the while ranting curse words aloud. He was bl
aming himself for not seeing these guys coming and also asking the age old question, “Why me?”
His head was killing him and he couldn’t think clearly, he resolved to take a look at his wounds in the bathroom mirror. He came face-to-face with the battered and beaten reflection of himself and, at first, it was shocking, but as he looked closely, it wasn’t as bad as he had expected.
He had two cuts above his right eyebrow. They were fresh, but not serious. He’d suffered far worse in his rock climbing expeditions. Someone had cleansed the wounds and bandaged them with butterfly band-aids. The band-aids were barely hanging on. His right eye had a darkening black ring and his bottom lip had been busted—he did look like he had been in a car accident, but would certainly survive.
He saw his cell phone, two Advil, and two band-aids on the sink counter, they left me Advil, he thought as he read the note the Advil sat on: “Project Northwest, Blue–Gray Eyes.” The cell phone was dead.
He quickly washed down the Advil with a glass of water. The first swallow tasted terrible, as the water rehydrated the dry blood from his lip and filled his mouth with that distinct metal taste of his own iron. He rinsed and spat out the bloody mixture and watched as the newly aggravated cut in his lip dripped blood into the sink. He ran water over his face and read the note again.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, waiting for it to suggest his next move when he saw it—out of the corner of his eye, on the edge of the sink, a short black and gray hair.
Mr. Wright had a chink in his armor. He had primped himself as he marveled in great detail about the attractive shape of Bridget, and left a little piece of himself behind.
James moved slowly, not wanting to disturb it, wanting to avert any action that might cause the hair to fall into the sink or onto the floor. He wet his finger under the faucet, placed his finger on the hair, and was delighted when it stuck.
He carefully placed the hair onto the note and then folded the piece of paper in half and in half again.
“Got ya, you son of a bitch,” he declared as he looked into the mirror. He placed the folded paper in his wallet and noticed one visa was missing, the Washington Common Bank visa. He then scoured the room for other items that they may have used. He wasn’t surprised he didn’t find any evidence.
He sat in the signature red chair, lifted the handset of the telephone, and wanted to dial 911. Every fiber of his being wanted to dial those three simple numbers. Kids do it all the time and save their whole family from burglaries in progress, their grandparents suffering from heart failure, or out-of-control fires.
The dial tone lasted for a minute or so, then went to a fast busy. He pressed the hook switch down, let it go, and dialed Bridget’s number. She answered before the phone finished its first ring cycle.
“Hello?”
“Bridget, it’s me—”
“James, I’ve been worried sick. The police said you’ve been in some type of accident, but couldn’t give me any information. What hospital are you at? I’ll come right now.”
“I’m not at a hospital. I’m at an Embassy Suites.”
“What? You’re at a hotel? Where?”
The questions were coming fast and furious. James could only focus on the last question, looked at the phone faceplate, and knew exactly where he was. “Umm, the one near the Airport, I–405, next to the Amtrak lines.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to go home.”
“I’m on my way.”
James couldn’t tell her what happened, he couldn’t risk involving her in this, and he couldn’t believe he was even thinking he had to do it. He, James Spain, was contemplating helping these bastards steal from a bank and lying to Bridget. Both, he suspected, would eventually turn out badly.
If he told her the truth, she would insist on involving the police or worse—think he was dishonest to cover something up, something sinister and untrustworthy—that as it was, was too close to the truth. No, he was going to have to lie and lie well. His story was simple: He was drugged after the hospital visit and left, dialed her, but in his physical and drugged state—most likely dialed the wrong number and just gave up and needed a place to crash for a while. For some reason, they brought him to the hospital near the airport and he remembered this hotel. It was the drugs and he couldn’t think clearly.
It wasn’t the best of lies, but would she really interrogate him when she saw him in this condition? He was betting she wouldn’t and hoping he was right. Sure, after a few days, the questions would become more and more piercing, his answers subjected to extra scrutiny, but he only needed a few days. He was sure he could find a way out of this mess. He had to.
He did a final check of room 122, closed the door, and noted the room was the last room before the side exit. He opened the side door. The burst of cool air flowed across his face and felt good, then stung the open wounds. Before letting the door close, he wondered if he should stop by the front desk and ask for the phone bill. Would they make any calls from the room phone? He doubted it and let the door close behind him and waited at the edge of the sidewalk.
Bridget rounded the corner and saw him. She jumped from the car, forgetting to put it in park, jumped back in, slammed the brake, engaged park, and ran toward James. She hugged him so hard it actually hurt and he let out a groan. She pulled away, saw his injuries, “I’m sorry, oh my god. James, thank God you’re okay. We need to get you back to the hospital.”
“No, baby, I’m fine. I just want to go home.”
“You don’t want me to take you back to the hospital? You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
As they exited the parking lot, her cell phone rang. The ID showed “’Unknown’. She answered and James could hear the one-sided conversation, “Hello.... Yes ... I will.... He’s in no shape to talk right now,” she answered and hung up.
“Who was it?”
“A Mr. Wright?”
“What did he say?”
“Glad you’re okay and he is looking forward to working with you Monday or something like that.”
“Okay, thanks baby.”
“He’s crazy. You’re staying home so I can take care of you. The police wouldn’t tell me anything, kept saying the records were incomplete and to call back in two hours. I’d call back in two hours only to be told to call back again in two hours. It was maddening. Oh, baby, you look terrible.”
James knew he was going to work on Monday, but didn’t have the strength to battle with her about it. Just sit back and let her take care of yo. Monday will be here soon enough, he thought.
On the drive home, James got the full account of her thoughts, feelings, and actions over the last fourteen hours, all of it in vivid and emotional detail. By the time they arrived home, he was mentally exhausted and his head was pounding, but he knew one thing, Bridget loved him to the core.
She had gone through her own version of hell in trying to find him, her eyes were puffy, and she had been up all night with worry.
And he also knew something else.
Mr. Wright wasn’t afraid to call Bridget and had known James was in the car. They were being watched just as Mr. Wright said they were.
Chapter Two
~ Sunday Morning ~
James woke up Sunday morning in his own bed to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen, mixed with the heavenly-bakery scent of cinnamon buns. In his morning haze, he could’ve sworn the whole thing was just a bad, bad dream. He almost convinced himself it was, but his head ached and he had the unmistakable earthy taste of metal from the dried blood on his lip, now healing. It all came back to him—he had the wounds on his face and the tender concern of Bridget to prove it was all too real.
Bridget called off from work and nursed him throughout the day. She bandaged, cleansed his wounds, iced his lip and swollen face, kissed, and massaged every part that hurt, even parts that didn’t. She charged his cell phone and deleted twenty–two messages she had left him during the franti
c search. She felt guilty deleting them, but didn’t want him to think she was too needy or something.
By Sunday afternoon, he was feeling much better and with the new butterfly band-aids in place, he didn’t look too bad. He could definitely go to work and that was exactly what he was going to do. His headache diminished as the day went on and he was able to think clearly.
When he finally had the strength to leave the bedroom, he found Bridget outside drinking a local brew from Georgetown Brewing Company. James grabbed one from the fridge and joined her. The beer went down smoothly as he mentally ran through his options.
He had the hair and it would certainly come in handy in the near future. He wasn’t sure how useful it would be but felt that it would prove valuable. He couldn’t call the police. Wright’s team was able to file a report that convinced the police investigators Bridget talked to that an accident did happen when it didn’t. He couldn’t trust anyone at the bank; the albino was obviously in OTS or some other agency. He was almost certain the apartment was bugged, as well as the phone and the internet connection.
He surmised that he didn’t know how far the rabbit hole went, but it was safest to assume it went deep. After all, billions of dollars were at stake.
He could only trust people who were not government related. What about his college roommate? Would they think to bug him? Would they be following him? How could he get in touch without being traced? He could go to a local internet café—was that an option? Would that work? The questions raced through his mind, but the answers were nowhere to be found.
James leaned in close to Bridget, close enough to whisper, “Can internet cafés be traced? You know, can the government tap into your internet communications?”
Bridget contemplated the question, allowing the cold beer to swirl in her mouth. She pulled the bottle from her mouth and it made a plunk sound. James motioned to her with a single finger across his lips, shush.
Bridget was puzzled by his secrecy, but whispered back, “Yes, I think so, they would have to know the internet provider and could probably see what you’re doing, but I think they would need a warrant. Why? Why are we whispering?”