by C. B. Carter
Wright contacted Karl at noon on the 1st of January and said he had good news. He could get Karl his job back and they should meet at the lobby of a nearby Embassy Suites.
He knew the man was in trouble, deep out-of-his-mind trouble, when Karl showed up drunk wearing the cufflinks that started this downward spiral. Wright’s team escorted Karl to the room and forced him to drink more than any human possibly should. Karl was semi–conscious when he was placed in his car along with an open bottle of 180 Proof Vodka and enough medication to kill a group of 60s rock stars.
Above the ferry terminal, they doused the interior of the car with the vodka, placed the pills within arm’s reach, lit the smoldering device in the floorboard, slammed the gas pedal to the floor with Karl’s shoe, and put the car in drive.
The vehicle hit the concrete barrier doing at least fifty miles an hour and burst into flames. The coroner stated that Karl Brownstone most likely blacked out and was dead from the deadly combination of medications and alcohol before the vehicle even hit the barrier.
Wright had pushed too hard in his attempt to gain control of Karl. Changing the initials on the cufflinks on the order form had been a mistake. But the biggest mistake was letting Karl get them. Once the deed is done it’s impossible to reverse. He knew better now, to never let your mark get control of key leverage material. Show it to them—sure—
but never let them have control of it.
The team contemplated a classic murder suicide setup, but those types of setups were too complex, were always too messy, and raised too many questions. Plus, the touchy-feely government types would want to come in and offer counseling and re-evaluate all his co-workers. His client didn’t have the kind of time. No, it was agreed by all present that anyone could relate to a man down on his luck and taking it a step too far. Hell, the guy had been drinking for days straight and everyone knew it.
With enough vodka in him to pickle a watermelon, the accident proved to be an excellent cover. Not a single question surfaced and it was written off as a sad series of personal events. What kept Mr. Wright up at nights, interrupted his sleep even when he was exhausted, were the similarities between his own life and Karl’s life. He and Karl had more in common than differences: similar backgrounds, both were family men, both successful—he could’ve easily, in the past, been Mr. Brownstone, opening that present and crashing into a barrier six days later.
He questioned: “Are we all really just three little words, actions or initials away from losing our minds, losing everything?” He never found the answer while sleeping and fought the urge to even think about it while he was awake.
* * * *
Cricket did well, by all accounts. The team in Condo 503 woke to the smell of fresh coffee, an assortment of pastries, along with egg, cheese and sausage breakfast burritos. The burritos never stood a chance. The platter was empty in seconds. Mr. Wrong, having arrived early in the morning, took two burritos and was reluctant to share until Mr. Wright put out his hand. Even then he deeply considered his options before handing it over.
“Cricket, are we ready for the call?” Wright asked with a mouthful of burrito.
“Yes, sir.”
“Will this secure line be garbled like it was last time?”
“No, sir, we’re punching through SIP to our own dedicated server with our own security certificates. The packets will be encrypted. We’re basically off the public service telephone network. I’d say it’s as secure as talking face to face,” Cricket offered.
“A simple no would’ve sufficed, Cricket, especially this early in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, bring it up at six fifty-nine on the dot.” He topped off his coffee cup, slid the door open to the balcony, and watched the sun rise over the Cascade Mountains. The sun didn’t track east to west as he was used to. It moved slowly west while taking a southerly path over Oregon. It was as if the sun tiptoed by the sleeping giants, not wanting to wake them. He conceptualized the possible questions on the upcoming conference call and chose the correct answer to each. He was ready and finally had his answers to the questions that kept him awake at night.
A few keystrokes, a security code, and the polycom speakerphone connected to an unknown location in New York State.
“Good morning. I assume we will skip the introductions,” suggested Mr. Wright. It was a rhetorical statement and did not receive a response. The laptop screen was blank. The only movement was the microphone meter as he spoke. Without a face to pin a name to, what was the point in introductions?
“Very well, I trust by the data delivered yesterday in real time, that our client is pleased.”
“Yes, we are very pleased with the results. Can we expect the same today and thereafter?” asked a rather anxious person with a wavering voice. Mr. Wright knew in his gut that it was a number cruncher talking.
“Absolutely, we have complete control over the mark.”
“You’ve said that before, Mr. Wright, and I shouldn’t have to remind you of K.B. Giving credit for the expedient clean-up of that mess, it goes without saying that it was a complete cluster fuck,” a voice boasting of authority stated.
Mr. Wright envisioned the authoritative person drinking Brandy at nine in the morning while smoking an Arturo Fuente Hemmingway cigar, letting the smoke cloak the portrait of some unyielding, scolding, old bag of a man with the obligatory white hunting dog near his knee. The painting, of course, would be hung with honor over the director’s chair in the boardroom, right above this asshole’s head.
Mr. Wright bit his tongue and said what was expected. There was, after all, a certain protocol to be followed. “I certainly understand your point of view and I can only say that this mark is completely, one hundred percent, under our control. Proof in point, the numbers you requested and we provided in real time yesterday.”
The faceless voice said, “Uhmmm,” as he pondered the response and the icon on the laptop showed the line had been muted, the lights on the polycom turned red. They were now discussing—well, really, the authority figure was saying and the others were agreeing—Mr. Wright’s answer and deciding that it just wasn’t good enough.
The mute icon changed. “Mr. Wright, I know this is an impossible question to answer, but I will ask it anyway. Can you guarantee the numbers we received yesterday will in fact be available each and every business day until we conclude our business?” It was more of a challenge than a question.
“Yes, sir, I can.”
“How can you be so sure? There are four men here, all with varying backgrounds and degrees from some of the best institutions in the world. I can see them shaking their heads, yet I hear you saying ‘yes’, Mr. Wright. There appears to be some confusion. Forgive my frankness, but how can you be certain?”
Mr. Wright had waited for this moment. He knew it was coming, had lost sleep over it, and in his mind the answer made perfect sense and should forever conclude any and all future discussions about K.B. He hoped for the best and began.
“History,” Mr. Wright succinctly stated.
“History? What do you mean history?” scolded an unknown gentleman through the speakerphone. Apparently, he was not at all pleased with the simplicity of the answer given.
“Karl Brownstone and Barbara Brownstone had history, sir. I would choose a better word, but I think it works well in context. The cufflink setup was meant to control Karl, but history is like magma, always pushing at the surface, looking for a weak point and when it finds it, it erupts and wipes out entire villages. I was blindsided by the history between the couple, trying to control it is similar to trying to control the forces that destroyed Pompeii, it’s just not possible. Proof in point, Karl never asked me once if I was responsible for the cufflinks. That’s indicative of a deep fissure in their relationship, one I could not foresee. It was an invaluable lesson learned by me personally and by my team. I further realize I should never let key leverage material be controlled by the mark. I made a mistake, but will never
make it again.”
The line was on mute again, Wright’s answer was being evaluated and measured. Did it have the correct amount of—somewhere between not too much and not too little—butt kissing? Did it have the ring of truth? After a full five minutes, the line was un-muted.
“Very well, we agree. So we’re safe in assuming that this matter of history has now been identified as a risk and mitigated?”
“Yes, sir, our new marks, the ones that performed flawlessly yesterday. One has a girlfriend of only eight months and they are still in that deep trust stage. He’s lied to her twice and she has not confronted him on it once. But make no mistake, he’s in love and for all the right reasons, she is a free spirit and quite sexual, caring and understanding, quite the envy amongst my staff. In my professional opinion, it would take a crane to pull these two apart and that’s the secret to our control over him, their lack of history affords us better control. I think the point is obvious now. We’ve had control over the other marks for some time.”
This time the line stayed open and the conversation was hushed down to whispering and a number of uhmms and ahs as they contemplated the details.
“It seems we’re in agreement,” said the older man The other four could not agree fast enough, and the entire conversation shifted to a more pleasant tone.
“Congratulations. The contract is back in play, get me the numbers as you did yesterday and you and your team will be drinking champagne at the Setai in Miami or some exotic island of your choice.”
Cricket beamed when he heard the words ‘exotic island’.
“Yes, thank you, sir. The numbers will be provided as promised. Would you like to discuss the plan moving forward?”
“We’re waiting on pins and needles, Mr. Wright, pins and needles,” said the number cruncher.
Chapter Eight
~ SOS on a Robe ~
James carried Bridget to the bedroom sometime around four in the morning. He couldn’t sleep and milled about the condo quietly, so as not to wake her. As exhausted as he was when they fell asleep watching the tube, he found himself lying awake on the couch staring at the ceiling. Soon he crossed into the no man’s land of ‘falling asleep now would ruin the day.’ It was too close to his normal wake up time and he’d be better off if he just stayed awake. He had the nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something.
He only had two points of control and examined each under close scrutiny.
He was certain his communication with and subsequent letter to Mark had not been intercepted by Mr. Wright and his associates. After scrutiny, he also checked Mark off as safe in his mind. The other point of contention was the fact that he had basically stolen Cindy’s cell phone and even when Cindy saw the long distance call to a number she didn’t recognize, Bridget could explain it away and the bill might be weeks or a month away.
Then it hit him; he had asked Bridget to tell Cindy to not tell anyone, especially if someone came snooping around. He ran the scenario through his mind for the possible outcome. If one of the goons sweet-talked Cindy into a conversation and asked if she’d noticed anything weird about Bridget, would Cindy say something to the extent of, “Yeah, now that you mention it, she did take my phone for a couple of hours.” If Cindy said that, would they have any problem getting the phone, pulling the numbers dialed and ultimately linking James to Cindy and discovering the trail that led to Mark?
He knew they would have no problem at all. Even if they had to rough her up to get it, they would leave no stone unturned.
He needed to tell Bridget, but he was certain they had little privacy. Mr. Wright warned him the condo was bugged. James had found three bugs in the living room alone. Hell, they even had the banks data room bugged. It was safe to assume, as sick as it was, they were also being watched.
He refused to let paranoia kick in and stopped trying to find the little cameras he was sure were there. Even if he had found them, he had been warned not to mess with them. If he did mess with them, that mere action would bring strong retaliation. He’d be accused, and rightfully so, of not playing nicely. He did not want to imagine the actions that tampering with the devices would set in motion.
He quietly went to the kitchen and noticed Bridget’s organizer on the counter—it always sat near the base of the phone. He considered tearing a piece of paper from the notepad in the organizer and writing her a note about their ordeal. In the corner, where the counter joined the backsplash, he saw her black felt tip pen. It was almost invisible in the shadow.
He leaned on the counter, looked up and along the valance. He found the camera.
He would’ve never noticed if he had not been looking for it. It was small, colored to blend into the wood and placed perfectly to hide in the nook of the valance. If he took the organizer, a quick before/after comparison on the video and they would know he took it, maybe not immediately, but he was positive they would see the swipe when they reviewed it. Again, he would be accused of not playing nicely.
In a moment of odd brilliance, he knew how to do it, how to get a note to Bridget under the noses of those watching. He couldn’t believe his life had come down to this, but he could not think of another way.
After he convinced himself they could not see the black pen in the shadow of the backsplash, he cupped it into his palm and dropped it into the pocket of his robe.
He moved slowly to the couch, pulled the cover over his head and debated how much he had to reveal to Bridget. Did she really need to know about the cameras? And if so, how was he going to explain them—even she, as trusting as she was, would not believe a bank employee investigator would take it this far.
What if she found the cameras and he hadn’t told her—that would be far worse. He concluded he had to tell her what was going on, he had to trust her.
He opened his robe under the blanket, extended the flap as far away from his body as he could, slowly retrieved the pen and at a deliberate slow speed as to not disturb the blanket over him, began to write the most unfortunate letter of his life on the inside of his white robe.
‘Bridget, do not be alarmed. Act normal, do not show any change in emotion. We’re being watched. Mr. Wright is blackmailing me to provide inside bank information. I’m sorry I lied before. I thought I was protecting you. The condo is bugged, the laptop, the car, my phone, your phone, your apartment, my office—they are all bugged. There are cameras in the condo, they see and hear everything.’
He paused, ashamed he had done whatever he had done to make them a target, ashamed he had to drag her into this. What a dreadful thing he was asking her to do. He had to trust her and continued writing.
‘I love you and I’m so sorry. If you leave, they will hurt both of us. If you act out, they will hurt us. We cannot discuss this. In a couple of weeks, this will all be behind us. I’m close to learning the true identity of Mr. Wright and will use that to get us out. You need to tell Cindy to not tell anyone we borrowed her cell phone or she will be in danger. Please, please understand. This is not a joke, it’s very real. I love you and am asking you to trust me. James.’
The next line was the pinnacle of requests that test most relationships, not will you marry me, although that is a doozy. This request was even more significant.
‘After you read this and if you still love me, if you trust me, call my office number, let it ring twice and hang up. I love you.’
He wanted to scream. He wanted to run down to the parking lot, run down the street until he found the Tahoe he was sure was out there somewhere. Pull those bastards out by their hair, put his foot on their throats and beat them senseless. He wanted to confront them, beat his chest and shout, “Bring it on!”
Grandstanding is out the door when push comes to shove and he knew he couldn’t do any of those things. So he closed his eyes and thought to a future date, the date he would call Mr. Wright rather than the other way around. The day he would tell him this little project was over, that he and Bridget were out.
That thought process led t
o an obvious flaw in his plan.
Sure, he could tell Mr. Wright he quit, but he had no insurance, he had nothing that would prevent them from rubbing him and Bridget out. Having their names wasn’t going to be enough. He was certain many dead souls knew the names of their killers. What did that knowledge do for them? Nothing. They were still dead and their killers most likely still here, freely walking around. He had to be sure when push came to shove, that his push wasn’t responded to with the shove of a couple of bullets into their temples. He needed something, an idea that made them more dangerous dead than alive.
He lay under the covers devising plans, though they started out well, looked promising, each failed and ended with him in jail, or him seeing no remorse in the eyes of his killer, or worse yet, him somehow alive attending the funeral of Bridget before being hauled off to jail.
He was up an hour later, took extra care in placing the robe on the hook, took his shower, dressed and shook Bridget, “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”
Bridget was always slow to wake up. She liked greeting the day on her own terms, didn’t like schedules, and had no interest in the rat race. That maze was for others, she was fond of saying. He finished cooking breakfast, went back into the bedroom, and found her hugging the pillow, out cold.
“Wake up baby, you have to take me to work, remember? We only have the one car.” She jerked, obviously had forgotten, and sat up in bed. The clock showed 7:35. “Five more minutes, please,” she pleaded as she plopped her head into the pillow.
“Okay, but only five, I want to get the day over with.”
He purposely waited twenty minutes before waking her. She would instantly know they were running late and he wanted her to be in a rush.