Josh hears him wrap up a trash bag, close the door, walk up the stairs.
Beep.
The wall opens.
Beep.
The wall closes.
Josh wonders why the florescent lights in the ceiling are still on. He tiptoes to the corner, peers around. Reagan is closed. Coast is clear.
Josh walks back to the corner and picks up his jacket. He spots the emergency exit he’d found on the ArchEngine blueprint. The exit is essentially a two-foot square opening obscured by a vent cover. No screws. He pulls on the cover; it pops off a magnetic release with very little force. He’s just about to bend down and contort his body to enter the opening when he notices the storage-room door to his right staring back at him. A beautiful man, amazing smile.
John F. Kennedy.
Etched into the storage-room door.
4JFK. Josh remembers the name of the decrypted folder on the SSD.
He pops the magnetic cover back into place, moves in front of JFK. There’s a keypad on the door just like the other ones, but he also notices a keyhole on the knob, something none of the other knobs have.
Please be unlocked, please be unlocked.
He places his oval key on the keypad. The lights swirl, he hears something unlock. He jostles the knob. It doesn’t turn.
Shit.
He runs his fingers across the top jamb of the door. No key. He looks at the fire extinguisher, checks above it, below it, inside the hose compartment. Nothing.
He closes the door that houses the hose, sees the detailed “IN CASE OF FIRE” instructions framed in plexiglass.
Details, he thinks.
“The key is in the details,” he says.
Kimberly’s goodbye email with the weird Bible verse at the end.
No, it couldn’t be. That would be next level spy shit.
He bends down and reads the instructions on how to operate the fire extinguisher—the hose, who to call in case of emergencies, the fine print. Just as he’s reading the final two paragraphs, using his finger to go line by line on the tiny type, searching for a clue to where the key may be hidden, he feels something odd.
He slides his two fingers along the covering and presses down. The pressure reveals the outline of a key, debossed in the thin plastic and paper underneath.
“Kimbo. You clever man.”
He pushes the plastic out of the slit at the top of the frame, folds the paper up. He grabs the key and slips it inside the deadbolt next to the twinkle in JFK’s eye.
It opens.
Through the sliver of the door, the bright overhead lights from the hallway illuminate the room. Six rows of file drawers on the left side of the storage closet go all the way to the ceiling. No camera in sight. He opens the door fully, checks the corners. Clear. He flips the light switch. A tiny ceiling light in the center barely adds to the light from the hallway, so he leaves the Kennedy door open.
Each row of files is numbered, each drawer is lettered. He goes to “4J” in the bottom center, bends down, opens it. He flips through the file names: A-B, C-E.
“F through J.” He pulls the folder, sits down on the floor and starts rummaging.
The very first subfile is labeled FALLBACK, typed in a courier font. Other folders are labeled by employee last names, some he knows personally.
Fitz, Jerome
Gaither, Matthew
Gunter, Pamela*
What’s with the asterisk?
He opens up Pamela’s file.
He sees photos of Pamela at a restaurant with a man.
Holy shit, that’s not her husband.
One photo shows the man holding her hand, the next one they’re kissing, in yet another they’re entering a hotel next to Central Park. Paperwork behind the photos shows the couple’s lengthy company email exchange—suggestive, often pornographic.
Jesus Christ. No wonder she told me to sign the nondisclosure agreement.
He flips hurriedly to another file: HARRISON, JOSH.*
Another asterisk.
He opens the file. Photos of Josh and Lennox fall into his lap: Josh and Lennox at a Chinese restaurant, Josh and Lennox entering Lennox’s condo, email after email of them fawning and pining for each other. He flips further. Printouts from his Grindr account, lewd photographs of Josh in compromising positions, copies of his illegal prescriptions for Klonopin and Xanax from his questionable pharmacist.
Damn.
In the back of his folder, Josh finds a typewritten letter.
For Josh,
It’s late, 2 a.m. I’m still at the office, slightly drunk, I’m scared. I know it’s the last time I’ll be here.
If you have made it this far, you’ve truly seen the depths of this company. Over the years, I’ve played such a huge part in all of this, and for that I apologize. The line began to get blurry after West’s first media acquisition, and by the time I realized what this company was really doing, there were no lines at all.
Until Walter was murdered. And then Lennox.
Kimbo, what have you done? he thinks. He continues reading.
Oh Josh, we had nothing to do with Lennox. I want you to know that. I know how much you loved him. Before he was murdered, Lennox and I were working together, collecting information to help bring down the company. I know West found out about him diverting the laundered money to another account, but if there was a plan to kill him, I would have known about it. If we did have something to do with his murder, I was not in the loop, and you know that I was privy to it all. Maybe West orchestrated something on his own. It certainly looks possible. Not probable, though; you know how he is.
Lennox and I tried so hard to be stealthy when collecting evidence on the organization. But their tentacles run deep. The paranoia has gotten out of control, and I believe I’ve been marked. And by the time you read this, I’ll either dead, or I’ve banished myself into exile as far away from these people as I can get. I’m frightened, as I’m sure you are now.
Got that right.
In this room is everything you need to know to continue our work. The rest is on the SSD I left for Jenna.
Now, about the SSD. By now you’ve figured out it’s a key. I’m the one who took it to my buddy at ArchEngine, had it fashioned together with the drive.
But whose key is it?
Josh flips the page.
Just before he passed, Lennox found this key in his husband Micah’s possession. He brought the key to me. I knew exactly what it was, so I had to tell him. Micah was a member of a secret group, a group West founded, run for the most part by me. The very next evening after Lennox brought me the key, he was killed. Again, please know I had no knowledge of what happened. I can only guess that West is the one who was surveilling Lennox and Micah on his own. Maybe he saw Lennox confront Micah about the key, I really don’t know. All I know is West had damaging information on both of them, Micah and Lennox.
Motherfucker, Josh thinks.
You see, over the years, we’ve collected dirt on many different employees, those marked with an asterisk were particularly vulnerable. When we thought we had enough to persuade them, they were asked to join a protected group called CAAD, run by a foreign organization masquerading as benefactors. Over time, West grew to distrust these investors and asked his own employees to begin spying on them. If they did not comply, they were threatened with the release of the material we had collected. Damning, sometimes destructive information.
Some of the members of CAAD were brought in from overseas, set up as Élan employees. These people also infiltrated our board of directors, having final veto of any decision made by West. CAAD and the board of directors are now indistinguishable from one another. About six months ago, some of the board members found the dirt we’d collected on our employees, started using the damning information to their own advantage, turning these employees against us. It’s been one of the darkest eras of my entire life.
As far as the foreign leaders of CAAD, all the information you need on them is in the ot
her file on the SSD, the one marked “_”. The underscore file is basically a copy of Lennox’s hard drive, with added information on the leaders of CAAD I stole from West’s personal computer. I had the file triple-blind encrypted, with software created by ArchEngine, the same company who made the blueprint file of the building, the same company who West contracted for the building’s new security system. Hopefully you have decrypted it by now.
Nope. Josh flips to a second page.
West is afraid. He’s been threatened with expulsion from the company. He and his family have also been physically threatened by CAAD. His wife is pretty close to leaving him and taking the two children. He’s desperate and wants to get out from under everything. He is trapped. A few months ago, he hired an investigative team to find out what CAAD’s end goal was. He wanted leverage, something to counter all the dirt they had against him. He turned the tables, something I’ve never seen him have the courage to do. The result of the investigation is frightening, both politically and economically, all documented in the “_” folder.
Which brings me to Project Fallback. Enclosed is proof of a manufactured insurance scheme that would protect CAAD’s investment in case of emergency. If Élan goes bankrupt or loses market share beyond forty percent, they have promised to instigate Fallback as a last resort. The simulation is on the ArchEngine file. Use overlays marked “FB” and “SIM.” They are password protected. The password is PLUTUS.
Plutus. Of course. “Narcissistic sonofabitch.”
I knew you could carry on the quest in my absence. I hope you can forgive me. And when this company is dead and buried, I hope we can see each other again.
From,
Kimberly
What an odd way to end a letter, he thinks.
“From Kimberly.”
He flips the page.
“For Josh,” he says. That’s weird too.
He flips it back.
“For Josh from Kimberly.”
Nice touch, he thinks. 4JFK.
He places the letter back in his HARRISON folder, opens the first folder marked FALLBACK, starts laying out the pages on the floor. He pulls out his FBI phone and starts photographing each page—a document outlining the botched gas lines during construction, an early punch list noting gas smells throughout the building, an inspection report noting third-party gas lines as a reason for delay.
“What is this? Some sort of insurance scam involving the gas lines? West, what are you—”
Beep.
The beep is followed by rattling sounds echoing through the hallways.
The overhead lights go out.
He hears footsteps on the stairs.
Reed again, he thinks.
Josh has already shoved the papers back in the folder. He collects the other folders, dumps them in the drawer, closes it. He takes out his phone to call Agent Pillsbury.
He hears someone in the hallway around the corner.
“Who’s there?” the voice says.
The voice sounds like Reed—a slight lisp, higher pitch.
“It’s just me.” Josh says, stepping out into the hallway. “Is that you, Reed?”
He hears footsteps coming closer.
Josh tries to sound casual. “I was just pulling some information I need for the event tomorrow. West asked me to—”
A hooded figure turns the corner, lunges toward Josh.
The sudden movement of the hooded man causes Josh to jump. He drops the phone, watches it slide underneath the fire extinguisher. He glances at the emergency exit vent to his left.
No time.
He runs inside the storage closet, shuts the door, locks it. He leans against the door, his chest thumping. The force of a sudden pound pushes Josh away. He backs up into the room, turns around, stares at the door. With each blow, Josh sees the face of John F. Kennedy pulsate, the metal booming in his ears.
Boom.
Boom.
The hinges are weakening, splintering.
Boom.
C h a p t e r 4 8
“THANKS FOR MEETING me here, Shawn.” Tracy follows Shawn up the stairs of Josh’s apartment building, her heels booming through the corridor. “Josh is not answering his calls.”
“It’s seven a.m., Tracy, maybe he’s still asleep.” Shawn brushes by a suited man with a notepad. “Excuse me.”
“On the morning of his biggest event?” Tracy replies. “You don’t know Josh Harrison.”
“You do, I take it? He said you guys used to work together at another company.”
“Years ago. He was my agent. I love that man-boy. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
They walk through the stairwell door. Shawn pauses, unsure of which way to go.
“To the right.” Tracy leads the way. She passes by another man with a notepad just finishing talking with one of Josh’s neighbors. She turns back to Shawn. “Who are all these men in suits?”
“No idea.” Shawn pauses at Josh’s front door. “Should I knock?”
“I don’t have a key anymore. He changed the locks, remember?”
Shawn knocks. The door cracks open.
“Looks like somebody’s home.” Shawn walks inside. “Josh? Buddy? It’s Tracy and Shawn. You okay?”
“If he’s depressed again,” Tracy says walking directly behind him, “I’m not sure I can handle that shit right now.”
They walk down the hall to his bedroom. The safe in the wall is completely open, the sloppy piece of drywall on his unused bed.
“That’s not good.” Shawn points to the wall.
“No, it’s not.” Tracy walks to the opening, looks inside. “It’s completely empty.”
“That was us.” Agent Pillsbury comes out of the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel. “We thought there might be another key to the secret floor in there, but we didn’t need it.”
“Good God, lady, you scared me to death!” Tracy sits down on the bed, starts fanning herself with her fingers.
“Tracy Heissman, I’d like you to meet Patsy Pillsbury,” Shawn says.
“Glad to meet you.” Agent Pillsbury bolts her head up, swipes the air left to right. “Tracy Heissman. Editorial, Press magazine. Anchor, Hard Press. Former model. Appeared topless in the January 2012 issue of—”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Tracy reaches out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Shawn, we need to talk.” Agent Pillsbury looks from Shawn to Tracy. “No offense, Miss Heissman. You’re just not authorized.”
“None taken.” Tracy leaves the room, shaking her head.
“Josh was on a mission last night, snooping around for us,” Agent Pillsbury says to Shawn. “After we hadn’t heard from him in a few hours, we came back here to see if we’d missed him. We broke in, looked for some way to get into Élan’s secret floor in the South Tower. By the time my guys got there and crowbarred their way in, the whole place had been emptied out, completely. Nothing except the login computer. Not a single other computer, not a file, not a folder, not a table, not a chair. Nothing in any of the rooms. Worst of all, no sign of Josh.”
“Good God,” Shawn says.
“We’re not too worried though. West needs him alive.”
“Not too worried? Where is he?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. West must’ve found the FBI phone and turned it off. GPS won’t give us anything.” She tosses the towel back in the bathroom. “I blame myself for him going silent. He wouldn’t stop texting, so I told him to stop.”
“He can do that to a person.”
A man with a notepad knocks on the bedroom door. “No sign from the neighbors. Looks like he never came back here.”
Agent Pillsbury nods.
“You said Josh went silent,” Shawn says. “Weren’t you following him?”
“As best we could, lots of late-night preparations at the new building, hotels and restaurants opening today. We had to park a good way away. Couldn’t really see who was going in or out.”
“You�
��ve been awake all night looking for him?” Shawn asks.
“Pretty much. When we went to the secret floor this morning, we did get a glance at the login info on the computer that tracks who comes in and out.” She swipes in the air again, upwards this time. “Reed Cordell, 1:28 a.m.; James West 1:40 a.m. Micah Breuer, 2:22 a—”
“Wait, I’m sorry, did you say Micah Breuer?”
“Yes. You represented him last year, no?”
“That’s impossible.” Shawn sits down on the bed. “He’s in France. That makes no sense.”
“Listen, I don’t want to confuse you here.”
“Too late.”
“Shawn.” She sits down on the bed beside him. “Micah has nothing to do with our current case, so I’m gonna share a simple fact, part of an ongoing investigation. Micah Breuer was involved in CAAD years ago. That’s it. That’s all I can say, all you need to know. My guess is somebody used his old key to get inside. Or maybe to exit, which makes more sense with the timestamp. That’s all. We know exactly where Micah Breuer is at the moment, and he’s not in New York City.”
“You think Micah was involved in CAAD though?”
“I can’t say. Let’s just say he was more involved with West than he represented at trial.”
“God.” Shawn stands.
“Back to Josh, back to Josh, come back to me.” She gets no response.
Shawn walks into the bathroom, splashes some water on his face. “It’s too early for this shit.”
“Agreed.”
Shawn walks back into the bedroom, wiping his face with the towel. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“Josh. Your client. Josh is actually quite brilliant. I’ve been impressed. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Why aren’t you more concerned?” he asks.
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