by Dave Buschi
As he moved past a vertical wall of high voltage wires and mechanical equipment, his mind felt as if it were free falling. He hadn’t seen any of this coming. It didn’t make any sense. James struggled to think. He needed to come up with a plan.
He went through a cased opening and entered a cavernous space. He looked over the guardrail and headed down. His ankle was holding up, but he didn’t know for how long.
He reached the bottom landing. Off to the side, there were rows of lockers. Some of the engineers stored their tools down here. James paused. An idea, or the beginning of one, formed in his head.
He found a duffel bag in one of the lockers and began to load up with tools. Using a screwdriver, he popped a cabinet’s lock and retrieved two utility laptops, several spools of cable and some duct tape.
Outfitted with what he needed, he went deeper into the bowels of the facility.
40
BOB had seen it in Saigon, Quang Tri, and more areas in Vietnam than he’d care to remember. He’d seen it again one night off the Ivory Coast while working on one of BP’s rigs. Seven of his men had died when Nigerian gunmen had come in their boats.
Seeing death was always a surprise, none more so than when it was your hands that caused a human being’s demise. There was a rush of adrenaline that flooded one’s consciousness like a river washing away thought. Later, upon reflection, came the horror of what had been done, as faces, emotions, guilt and demons clawed for attention. But right now those struggles and voices were pushed aside.
“What is it?”
His own words…
Answered by the reflection in the glass… the fear in Sue’s eyes.
IF time could stop…
Be seen from a different perspective.
Bob wasn’t an intimidating presence; he wasn’t tall and he didn’t have a broad frame. But working on a rig for thirty-five years, drilling miles of pipe, moving equipment around that could make his hands bleed—gave him a strength that a person wouldn’t see just by judging his outward appearance. Only an observant eye might notice the cords on his wrists and thick calluses on his hands.
He was sixty-two years old. Almost twice the age of the man behind him.
THAT man, reflected in the glass—who had survived firefights with rival Chechen gangs, was a soldier in the Solntsevskaya brotherhood and had just seen two of his comrades, Vasily and Artem, killed by Bob’s gun—was, if anything, supremely overconfident. He was a killing machine, and his arm outstretched, a pistol in his cold, firm grip, pointed at Bob’s head, was all in a day’s work for him. Tomorrow he’d mourn his lost brethren; today he’d brain an old man.
He couldn’t have been more mistaken.
BOB instinctively reacted with a speed that belied his age by several decades. The stock of his shotgun smashed into the Muscovite’s jaw. It shattered the man’s jaw on impact. The man’s pistol discharged as the man went down. The errant bullet missed the girls and lodged in the wooden joists above their heads.
Bob moved quickly, almost a blur. The man was down, but not out. He disarmed him, snapping one of the man’s fingers in the process. As the man tried to rise, Bob took him down for good with a forearm blow to the temple.
The man crumpled. It was over.
“IS he dead?” His daughter with her hand to her mouth.
Bob knelt and checked for a pulse. “He’s alive.”
There was a delayed reaction, and then Sue began to sob. Bob rose and stood there awkwardly. He wanted to reach out, comfort her, but it was as if he was suddenly frozen. All his energy expended, unable to even reach out and touch his daughter.
He stood there as Sue brought her girls to her and hugged them.
Tears flowed.
A tightness squeezed Bob’s chest. He knew their innocence would never be the same. He felt sorrow for that reality, particularly for Katie and Hannah. He’d seen death at an early age too, and knew the loss it brought. It was as if color drained from the sky and grayness seeped into the days of youth.
Eventually the tears ebbed and Sue stood and led her girls back into the house. Bob didn’t follow, but tended to the man he’d taken out. He found some duct tape and bound the man’s arms and legs. As he wrapped him, he saw the tattoos.
The tattoos made him pause. He’d seen tattoos like that before. It had been in the Ukraine, and the man that had those tattoos had been in the employ of an oil czar.
A bad sense of foreboding followed Bob as he went inside.
He found Sue in the living room. She was wiping something from her daughter’s arm. “They cut the phone lines,” Sue said. “I’ve tried calling with my cell phone, but I only get a busy signal.”
Bob nodded and set down his shotgun and the guns he’d collected. “Who were those men?”
Sue shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked at him. “If you hadn’t come when you did…” She trailed off. “How did you know?”
“Your cat.”
She looked at him, puzzled, and Bob explained. He told her he’d rung the doorbell and thought they weren’t home. He’d left and had seen their cat crying on the stoop. “I came back. I didn’t think you’d leave your cat. Not with what was going on.”
“So that was you… ringing the doorbell?”
Bob nodded.
“Tigerlily?” Hannah cried.
“Mommy, unlock the door.”
“Okay…”
Sue opened the front door and the girls called for their cat. Seconds later, a large calico came running up the steps, crying loudly.
“Hey, Bawler,” Bob said, as the cat preened.
“It’s Tigerlily,” Hannah said, scolding.
Sue glanced at Bob. “Do you think they’ll be okay?” she said softly.
Bob nodded. “They’ll be fine… they’re young.” He knew that was what she needed to hear.
There was pain and hurt in her eyes, and Bob wished he could make it go away. Emotion welled up inside him, and he turned away. He walked around the room. There were sheets of plastic on the floor. A duffel bag had been emptied on the couch. None of this looked like your typical robbery. This was something else.
That bad feeling came over him again.
“Do you mind if I look around?”
41
IT was past midnight in snow-laden Moscow and the smoky clip joint was filled with regulars. Semion Mihajlovic stubbed out his Davidoff cigarette and lit another.
He was a squat man with fleshy jowls. Deep brows gave his face a primordial profile. His suit was tailored and expensive; his pinky ring and gold watch were encrusted with diamonds. As head of the Solntsevskaya bratva, or Solntsevskaya brotherhood, the most powerful organized crime family in Moscow, Mihajlovic was far removed from the common ilk that bottom fed in the backstreets and alleyways of his city.
He and his men operated differently from the other crime families in Russia who adhered to an arcane and antiquated value system, where being vory v zakone, or ‘thieves in law’ was considered a badge of honor. For those men, strict codes of lawlessness fettered their lives. The Solntsevskaya bratva had expanded beyond such narrow-minded thinking. They lived by their own set of rules and their operations spanned the globe.
Fortune 500 companies had nothing on the Solntsevskaya bratva. They were a multi-billion dollar organization in many ways more powerful than the Cosa Nostra or South American drug cartels. Over twenty-thousand strong with a presence in Asia, Europe and America, they operated without impunity or fear of the law. They had their hands in everything, everywhere.
While their roots were in prostitution, human trafficking, arms dealings, and illegal drugs, they’d expanded significantly in the last decade into pseudo-legitimate businesses and considered themselves at their core reborn as true businessmen.
It was an attitude that was promoted, even flouted by Mihajlovic. For all respective appearances—the bodyguards, armor-plated Rolls, lavish lifestyle with flats in Moscow, Venice and Nice—he maintained he was a simple business
man that dabbled in wheat commodities, real estate and oil futures.
His designer phone pressed to his ear was standard for him. When he wasn’t talking on it, his stub fingers held on to it, expecting his next call. Most, if not all his business was transacted on the phone. Even when one of his girls attended to his needs he held onto it. It was his thing.
Right now he wasn’t pleased.
“What do you mean you haven’t had contact?”
The voice on the other end was filled with static; it was an overseas call. Mihajlovic snorted; a sign that sometimes preceded violent explosions he was prone to have on occasion.
The two men near Mihajlovic’s booth glanced at their boss. They were standing several paces away. Each was built like a tank, and topped out at over three-hundred pounds.
Mihajlovic snorted again. “What about Angelguard? Where are we right now?”
He nodded. “And the accounts? The money? Hmn. Da!”
Mihajlovic clicked off. He took another drag and leaned back. His enormous potbelly threatened to launch the pearl buttons off his shirt. His eyes trolled the room. Near the Lucite bar, which glowed with a purplish cast, he saw a Krasivaya he hadn’t seen before. She looked Czech: round face, body long and lissome. He nodded at one of his men, and the man came and stooped over.
Mihajlovic said a few words and the man nodded and walked towards the bar.
Mihajlovic rolled his lower lip inwards and fiddled with his pinky ring. Waiting was tiresome. He needed something to relax, take his mind off things. His eyes took in the girl as she walked over. Her legs had a slight wobble as she walked, indicating she hadn’t yet mastered the art of walking gracefully in six-inch stiletto heels.
Mihajlovic made a call on his phone.
“Get in touch again. If no contact, have them send more men.” He clicked off as the girl—barely more than a teen—slid her shapely tush into the seat across from him.
“What’s your name?”
She told him.
“Do you know who I am?”
The girl nodded.
“Good. Champagne?”
The girl smiled and showed off snaggly, uneven teeth. Mihajlovic snorted, displeased.
“You’re an ugly one aren’t you.” He laughed a throaty belly laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t throw you away. Just keep that trap closed.” He signaled with a finger. “Victor, champagne! Shevelis!”
42
VISITORS from corporate sometimes commented on it. The Vault was that kind of place. It evoked unique first impressions. Unworldly was a term bandied about. There were other terms used to describe the place. Muscular. Twenty-second century. Hard.
They all fit. For James, he usually thought of that movie Aliens. Particularly the first few times he’d gone down to the lower levels. He’d seen that movie as a kid and it had scared the bejesus out of him.
There wasn’t the moisture component, dripping water everywhere, nor was there the slime. And definitely not the rust. But there were the catwalks, the metal grate floors, the open elevator lifts, the huge utility lines running overhead and along the walls.
There was also the noise. The constant whoosh of air handlers and humming of equipment. That was down here. All of it industrial and brutish.
The Vault hit all the cues. Big time surround sound too.
WHOOOSH…
The cooling this place required was unreal. It was like a wind tunnel in spots.
Constant.
Overpowering.
If you weren’t in the Fishbowl you were assaulted with it. Many of the technicians wore earplugs; some even wore the heavy duty kind used on firing ranges. The decibel levels varied, depending how close you were to the air handlers or the other banks of equipment. In some areas of The Vault the noise was as high as 81 decibels. You almost had to shout to make yourself heard above the din.
A technician had once regaled him with details. Apparently 85 decibels was the cut-off point the federal government cared about. After that point employers were required to protect their workers. OSHA standards is what the man said. The technician mentioned he’d even brought in a decibel reader.
It hadn’t proven his case. 4 decibels too few. ComTek had listened to the man’s complaints and promptly ignored them.
They’d spent over two billion dollars on this facility, but the cost for a little ear protective gear to improve the work environment for their employees was just too much. Gotta draw the line somewhere, the technician had been told. Just deal with it.
James wasn’t surprised. That was standard M.O. The number crunchers always said no.
The technician had his own theory. In his mind, he understood their logic. It made sense to save twenty bucks on ear protective devices. But as for other capital expenditures, they were always inversely in proportion to what level they were connected to wants of upper management.
For instance… Corporate retreats for VPs and above—there was a special $289,000 slush fund for that allotted each year. And one corporate jet wasn’t enough for the CEO. He had to have two. That cost $333,000. A month!
You don’t even want to know what it cost to remodel the CEO’s office. See, we’re in a turnaround…
The man had a knack for impressions. Could do a mean CEO. That’s right, a turnaround. Need to get that stock back up. Can’t do it from this crummy office. Goddamnit. Twenty thousand for a rug? Just do it! Twelve thousand for a new hutch? Goddamnit, yes! It’s a bargain. Dennis Kozlowski owned the damn thing and he paid a heck of a lot more than twelve thousand.
No lie. Serious. It actually belonged to Dennis Kozlowski. Kolinsky? Wait a second, you’re not related are you?
The technician had a sense of humor.
Different departments, same challenges. James had trouble requisitioning funds for his own team. New software to replace his team’s outmoded, three-year old, almost obsolete IT Security? Forget it. Make do with what you got.
Figure it out.
Be creative.
Buzz phrases; he’d heard the same pithy platitudes.
WHOOSH…
It had been near here that the technician had bent his ear. Can you believe that? Told me to go to Home Depot. Buy it on my own dime.
James had nodded, smiling. He’d liked Jerry.
Wasn’t much longer after that he’d heard the man had moved on ‘to seek other opportunities’.
Thing was—Jerry had had a point.
The whoosh sound was more than just an annoyance. It created a pressure that built up in the head. Made it hard to think.
Drowned out other thoughts.
Not good. Particularly not now, considering that James needed to be able to think.
He looked over his shoulder again.
A long row of cabinets, all painted a bright orange, tracked down a wall. The ceiling, ten-foot overhead, was filled with power lines encased in braided stainless steel conduit. Vertical ductwork bisected the floors. Down a ways there was a metal railing. He could still see the blue-painted metal beams supporting the monolithic slabs of concrete and steel deck. Cavernous spaces beyond.
Could have been the belly of a futuristic ship.
He kept moving. Somewhere near here he remembered seeing one. One of the hubs.
They were throughout the facility for technicians to use. Any of them might work. The difficulty was going to be in finding one out of sight. Most the hubs were in plain view.
He couldn’t use those. Security was looking for him right now. He needed to pick a discrete spot. Someplace that was tucked away, close enough to ductwork.
That was key.
Be creative.
He could do that.
He slowed down. This was looking familiar. He’d been here with Jerry.
There, ten paces ahead, just as he remembered. Couldn’t see it till you were right upon it. It was along the wall, fully hidden by the orange cabinets. One of the diagnostic hubs.
James set down the duffel bag and pulled out some of the items that he�
�d taken from the locker area.
Screwdriver in hand, he went to work.
43
IT didn’t take long. James stepped back to take a look.
The utility laptop, which he’d inserted in the duct, was fully out of sight. The grill was repositioned back as it was. A cord, discretely hidden, came from inside the duct. It was taped so that it tracked behind some equipment and disappeared.
He checked the other laptop to make sure it was picking up the signal. Seemed to be working fine. Plenty of battery power.
That was good, he was going to need that. He put the laptop in sleep mode and loaded the tools back into the duffel bag. The duct tape had come in handy.
Duct tape. Over a million uses for the stuff.
He sat down. Make that one million and one. He doffed his shoe and wrapped his ankle. Gingerly, he tested the result. There was still a sharp pain, but it helped some. What he needed was to stay off it, and to elevate and ice it. Wishful thinking, of course.
He laced back up, got rid of the booties, and picked up the duffel bag and moved on. His head ached from where he’d hit it earlier. His cut had scabbed and his hair was matted with dried blood. His back was sending warning signs it was about to flare up. Aside from those minor particulars, he was doing fine.
He had a moment where he saw the irony. A simple cold could make him crabby and irritable. Sue always said that he—and sometimes upped the ante to include all men with her comment—were such babies. The girls would get a cold and soldier on, but if James got just the hint of one he’d inevitably complain and go to bed.
In most other things, however, he wasn’t a whiner. He’d grown up in Philly; a blue-collar neighborhood. It wasn’t a place for whiners. He used to make money cleaning up his uncle’s place after school. His uncle owned a sparring club and gym. James had done his fair share of getting on the mat. Pain, his uncle would say, was all in the head.