by Leigh Barker
Ethan timed his approach. Ten feet. Five. At three, with no sign the bully was going to try to go around him, he bent down to fasten his shoelace. Anybody watching with even rudimentary martial arts knowledge would’ve seen it coming a mile away.
The overweight polished man had intended elbowing Ethan out of the way and not stopping, and now he couldn’t.
As he went head first over him, Ethan stood up. The move flipped the guy completely, dropping him on his back.
Ethan glanced at him glaring up from the sidewalk, said, “Oops,” and went to the woman crumpled against the building.
“You alright, ma’am?” he said, taking the woman’s hand and helping her to her feet. He nodded towards the fool trying to get to his feet but being hip-butted back down by passers-by happy to see the moron get his dues.
The woman brushed herself off. She was maybe forty, fifty-ish, with tired eyes, and wore sensible clothes that had been around a while.
“Hey, you go kick him in the nuts if you like,” Ethan said, nodding towards the shiny suit still trying to get up.
“No, I don’t think so.” She gave Ethan a real smile. “Thank you for…making my day.”
Ethan touched his temple. “Pleasure, ma’am.” He reached down and picked up her Saks shopping bag and handed it to her. It too was well-worn and he could tell it held only her sandwiches.
He pointed down the street and she turned to see the man’s driver getting a ticket. She smiled and walked away, having a better day.
Ethan started to pass the Bentley and the cop writing the ticket, stopped for a moment and pointed at the rear wheel. “Tire’s worn, Officer.” He walked on, smiling. The moron getting what he deserved was a good omen. Bit stupid if it drew the attention of the armed special forces guys. He looked back up the street. Okay, not now. He’d draw attention later. He glanced at his watch. They’d be expecting him to show at eleven, an hour before his deadline, but he was going in at ten. Just to mess with them. There was time for coffee and eggs. A man shouldn’t go to work on an empty stomach.
Andie was finding it hard to concentrate and every few seconds looked out of the van and up at the office block a little way up the street. He’d be fine, this is what he did for a living, and he’d proved himself a hundred times. He’d be fine. Then why didn’t she believe it? Well, that was easy, there was an army of combat-trained operators in there waiting for him. That’s why.
She had to pull herself together, she was a US Navy petty officer, for Christ’s sake. Her job right now was easy enough, prove that Orpheus knew about nine-eleven and made his fortune betting on the deaths of three thousand Americans. Easy enough, if she said it fast.
There had to be a way, somewhere there was data just waiting for her to say hello. She looked out of the window again. Nothing. She slid the window open and listened. No gunfire. She looked at the feed from the building’s security cameras and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Office workers getting on with their day. So far it was okay.
Data.
Follow the money. That’s just what they say on cop shows, but it was a place to start, God knows she was scoring zero on her own, so why not let HBO give her a hand?
The problem with following the money, she soon discovered, was that it came from the financial markets, from trading currency, the dollar. So what did she expect? A cheque signed your friend, Bin Laden?
She stopped typing. No, not a cheque, but at some point Orpheus and Bin Laden must have communicated. They wouldn’t have used a phone, that would’ve flagged up on the NSA monitoring. Ditto for emails. But the dark web? Could be. Or some encrypted clandestine comms channel. Great. Encrypted and clandestine. Shouldn’t be hard. Right, and NSA didn’t decrypt it. Except that’s what they’d wanted the world to believe before Edward Snowdon blew the whistle.
She was rambling. Do something. Trying to. She couldn’t concentrate. She needed a Coke and a muffin, chocolate chip. There was a muffin shop on G Street. What was that, hundred yards? About five minutes. She looked at her watch. Ethan wasn’t going in until ten, that gave her time, plenty of time to get there and back into overwatch.
She stepped out of the van, closed the door, and for a second thought about locking it, but what was the point? A five-year-old with a toothpick could break into that sixties relic. She left it unlocked and went in search of chocolate chip.
She’d gone fifty yards when she stopped dead, and staggered when the man behind walked into her. They apologized to each other without conviction and he strode off, but she stayed still for five seconds while the idea bounced around in her head.
Stupid, stupid. Why had it taken so long?
She was hacking the wrong system.
Ethan watched the building from the alley beside the restaurant across the street. Stinking dustbins and rats. The alternative was to lean against a shopfront out on the street. Yeah, that would be cool; nobody would notice him there, until they shot him.
It was almost ten and he hadn’t seen a way to get into the building that wouldn’t get the operators all agitated and excited. He was going in at ten one way or another, otherwise…what? Set another deadline? There’s a very good reason for jump-off times and he’d told the men and women at Camp Lejeune, Set a time to go; then go. Anything else is a cop-out. They got it. Yoda got it too: Do. Or do not. There is no try. So at ten o’clock he’d go, even if he had to drive a truck through the front door.
And as if the magic fairy had snapped her fingers, there was the truck. Not for driving through the front door, this was way better.
A FedEx van pulled up in front of the Parallax building, and the driver leaned forward to peer through the windshield for someplace to park. An aging doorman stepped out of the front door and waved him towards the ramp to the basement.
“When it absolutely, positively has to be there…by ten o’clock,” Ethan said, waited for a break in the traffic and walked across as if he were just Joe Public late for work.
There were too many people and it was way too early for anyone to pay him any attention, and wearing a hippie jacket helped. He reached the top of the ramp as the FedEx van stopped and the driver made sure he was going to get down without losing the roof. And nobody was shouting or shooting. That was a result.
Ethan opened the passenger door and got in.
The driver’s head snapped round. “What the hell?”
Ethan raised a hand and smiled at him. That sometimes worked, and it might this time. The driver was older, which meant he was probably mellow, had crinkles around his eyes so probably liked to laugh, and was a little guy so probably wouldn’t get physical. Right, disregard the few probablys and Ethan was on to a sure thing.
“I know it’s a damn cheek.”
“Damned right.”
“Thing is,” Ethan said, still smiling, “my wife works here and it was our anniversary yesterday.”
“You forgot, right?” There was the crinkly smile.
“Yeah.”
Ethan saw that the driver was wearing a US Navy Retired pin on his lapel. Eagle and fouled anchor never looked so good. The guy had silver hair, so he would’ve served way back.
“Spent last night at a bar with some of my old marine buddies. A reunion of a sort. Mostly beer.”
The crinkly smile became a grin. “Yeah, done that a few times.” He tapped the pin. “Navy. Desert Storm.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, “I was there.”
The driver glanced at him and nodded. “Yeah, about right.”
Ethan decided not to go on a meander down memory lane. “Told Andie I’d got her a great present and it was in her desk.”
“Quick thinking.”
“What marines train for.”
“And navy.”
“I’ve got an eternity ring.” He tapped his empty pocket. “I was thinking I’d stroll up to her desk and say surprise! and give it to her.”
“Shit, that’ll have her blubbering all over the place.”
“Hope so. Thing is,
I can’t get in through the front door.” Ethan shrugged. “Had a bit of a falling-out with the lobby guard a while back. Young yahoo bad-mouthing the marines.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“So I’m thinking if I can get into the basement, I can just take the elevator from there and surprise her.”
“And you need to get past the guys on the door?”
Ethan nodded. “One Desert Storm vet to another.”
The man looked at him for a second, then nodded. “Why the hell not? I had a wife. Maybe have her now if I’d taken a few risks.” He reached behind his seat. “Here, wear this.” He handed Ethan a FedEx polo shirt and nodded at him. “Better than that shit you’re wearing.”
Ethan looked at his old canvas jacket and crumpled T-shirt he’d taken from the VW. “Can’t argue there. Borrowed it from a friend.”
“Friends like that…” The driver wrinkled his nose. “What is that stink?”
Ethan smelled the arm of the jacket. “Cat pee. I think.”
“Jesus. Get rid of that thing.”
Ethan tossed the jacket out of the window and put on the polo and tugged it down with a nod. “Cool.”
“If you say so.”
The driver took the van down the slope and was waved in by one of the two regular security guards at the garage doors.
Ethan got out by the delivery elevator, and the driver came around the van and handed him a large box.
“They’re still watching.”
Neither looked back at the door. Ethan put the box on his shoulder and waited while the driver called the elevator. The door slid shut and Ethan put the box down.
“Obliged.” He put out his hand. “Ethan.”
“Friends call me Mojo.” He shook Ethan’s hand. “It’s okay you call me that if you want. Now go surprise your wife and don’t neglect her like I did.” He shook his head. “Stupid.”
“Hey, Mojo,” Ethan said, patting the driver on his shoulder as they exited the elevator on the first floor, “you take care of yourself. And what the hell, get on line and find yourself a good woman.”
The driver shrugged and walked off towards the post room without looking back.
Ethan was in. First floor, nineteen to go.
Detroit leaned back into the cream leather sofa and put his feet up on the matching leather footstool. He rested the magazine on his MP5 lying across his lap and turned the page horizontally and tutted. The bathroom design was form over function. Nobody but a midget would be able to use the shower, and men need to pee standing up. Jesus, who pays these people? Tiles with purple spots and yellow edges? What planet did those two go together? The designer was color blind.
He flicked the page, reached over to the table and picked up a pen. Ink cartridge. He shook his head. So which movie star was he a perfect match for? He had twenty-four questions to find out. He’d always had the hots for Jodie Foster. That kinda crash-landed a while back. Question one, age. He wrote forty-four. A lie. Not a great start. He glanced up. If he finished the quiz, he’d end up with Harrison Ford. He closed the magazine.
Hofmann had done all right for himself. Detroit looked around the apartment with its city views on three sides and the minimalist cream furnishing. Okay, yeah, he could say that wasn’t bad. A painting maybe, over there where there was just too much white space. A Picasso, wild and a bit crazy. No, Van Gogh. Sure, sunflowers.
He picked up his MP5, Merv, and walked around the apartment, opening drawers and looking in the wardrobes. He lifted the sleeve of one of the dark suits and raised his eyebrows. Not bad. He could’ve put him in touch with a better tailor, but not too crappy, if you didn’t want to go out in public. He leaned down and opened a small drawer. Handkerchiefs, silk. Who did this guy think he was, Frank Sinatra?
He glanced at his watch. Ten forty-five. Gig was due to go down at noon. He had time then for a shower and a nap. Right. He checked the MP5 fire selector and made sure it was on safe. It was, but guessing isn’t as sure as checking. Check it a thousand times and it’s safe; skip one time and it blows your fucking head off.
He crossed to the double doors, slid them open a crack, and saw Hofmann sitting at his desk. He looked like he was working on his computer, but his constant glances at the elevator and stairwell door said otherwise.
Jesus, he’d got an army between him and the street. Yeah, except it was that marine sergeant coming, and Detroit had met him twice now. That he’d lived to remember it was down to the man’s sense of honor. He was glad of it, but didn’t get it at all.
He slid the doors closed. An army wasn’t going to be enough.
There was a line of straight-backed wooden chairs outside an office with a plastic sign saying Human Resources. He sat on the last chair and picked up a magazine. Like waiting for the dentist.
He was in the building and that was down to dumb luck. The Fates must have been taking a crap, or at least the one who hated him.
Twenty operators between him and Orpheus. He glanced up at the crooked office sign fixed to the door. That said it all.
Maybe Orpheus had seen the light and called the FBI. And maybe a little fairy with tinkly bells would bring him his winning lottery ticket.
How would he deploy pretty much a platoon of men in this building? He wouldn’t. Overkill. He smiled to himself. If you forgive the pun. So many guys would be falling over each other. And there’d be no way to ensure they all knew who was friend and who was foe. Unless they had a password or a secret handshake, and that wasn’t likely. So something else. And sitting there reading—he looked at the magazine cover, The Washingtonian—wasn’t going to get it done.
What he needed…and here it came.
The guy just exiting the elevator looked like a character from a ninja movie, dressed in black and only missing a black ski mask. He might look stupid, but Ethan knew different. A stupid man doesn’t move the way this one did. When he stepped out of the elevator, he didn’t just wander off down the corridor with his head up his ass, he put his back against the wall next to the door and looked both ways quickly and then again much slower. He would have seen Ethan, but he would also have seen a guy in a blue polo shirt and canvas pants, not desert cammies and a boonie hat.
Ethan continued to read the magazine and made himself small by squidging down on the fuck-off-someplace-else chair. One look and the ninja dismissed him and walked down the corridor towards him, glancing into the offices on either side as if his target might be in there maybe doing a bit of filing.
He barely glanced at Ethan as he passed and looked at the closed office door and its inviting crooked nameplate. Some fool going to get reamed by HR for doing something stupid.
Ethan could fight, any weapon or hand-to-hand, but this guy was younger than him by enough years to burn down the house if they lit the candles. He decided to delay the test of fighting skill until next Tuesday, if he could fit it in. He stood up, took his Colt from under his thigh, and put it against the guy’s skull right above his spine. The ninja stayed very still.
What the guy was going to do next was raise his hands very slowly and a bit wider than necessary, then say something to make Ethan take his eye off the ball, and in that instant he would spin and his outstretched right arm would knock the gun out of line. Then he’d get to the pounding and crunching.
“Easy, fella.” His voice was calm and low. “I’m a good guy. My cop ID is in my back pocket.”
Ethan was supposed to look down. He stepped back, not far, just a foot or so. The guy spun like it says in the manual, and Ethan leaned forward and put the Colt against his forehead. Like it doesn’t say in the manual.
The ninja thought he was going to blow his head off, Ethan could see it in his eyes. It was an option, but loud and very messy. He cracked his gun butt against the ninja’s head and he took an unexpected nap.
Like every job well done, there’s always the clearing up. Ethan looked around for a handy broom cupboard like in the movies. This set didn’t have one. Any second somebody was g
oing to come out of one of the offices, see the ninja all folded up on the floor, and start making a fuss.
He opened the HR office door and took a quick look inside. It was empty, but he’d surmised that from the complete lack of activity. That and the fact the lights were out. Maybe the humans didn’t need resourcing here in Orpheus world. He grabbed the ninja’s uniform webbing and dragged him into the office.
He rolled him over. That was how they intended recognizing each other? He bent down and pulled off the guy’s plastic name tag and compared the photo to the sleeping beauty. Not such a dumb idea. Looks like he was about to become Robert Harris. Photo didn’t look much like him, but it was too small to be seen unless the viewer was up close. That element of the design was dumb.
He unfastened the guy’s belt and cross-over shoulder straps, then snapped open his pants and stopped. Jesus, he hoped the guy wasn’t going commando. Not because he’d be shocked, though he might be, but because of the hygiene implications. He chuckled quietly. Right, a marine and hygiene. He’d crawled through stuff the sewers would puke up, and eaten stuff he should’ve puked up.
He snapped the black belt closed over the black pants and black tunic and took the gun from the black holster. Glock 17. That made him Delta, maybe. He dropped it into the receptionist’s drawer and put his Colt in the holster.
That still left the guy in the tighty whities sprawled on the office floor. He was out, but wasn’t going to stay that way long enough. Ethan could’ve just snapped his neck, that would’ve kept him quiet for…well, forever. Day he killed an unconscious man, he’d know he’d gone over to the dark side.
He patted the uniform pockets. These guys liked pockets. Side pockets, breast pockets, hidden pockets. Jesus, what were they, Boy Scouts? He stopped patting and pulled out a neat pack of zip ties, and smiled. “That’s being prepared, Bob.”