1 Manic Monday (12 page)

“Clearly, the files you are glancing at are the companies
and individuals who have invested in our enemy.”

“Our enemy?’

“Your father’s enemy.
 
His comrade, fellow investor at Sinegem and hundreds of
Sinegem’s
investitures, and his great nemesis, the
mysterious client of Galbraith Alliance.”

“So, these individuals, these companies invested in this
enemy?  So this is where you get the ‘them’ comment.”

“Yes. Just.”

“How are these people to blame?”

“Why, they supported his campaign.”

“Campaign for what?”

Clarence smiled and slid a photo across to her.  In it,
a man in a suit stood atop a podium, jubilantly raising his hand, a woman in a
sensible dress and three children stood behind him, smiling.  Red and blue
confetti littered the air around him.  His face was very familiar. 

Of course it was.

Her stomach lurched. 
This is too big.  Even
for father
, Giselle thought.

“I know what you are thinking.  But, perhaps your plan
for Galbraith and Mr. Monday contain more wisdom than you think.  Don’t
despair, Ms. Giselle.  Tears and blood will flow soon.  Debts will be
paid in spades.  Mr.
Nicholaisen
is a vengeful
man and I am a dutiful servant.  And you, my dear, are a talented daughter
that can make all this work.”

She swallowed and looked again at the photo.  Clarence
was trying to inspire her, but she only felt dread.

“I am going to need some more champagne, I think.”

Clarence smiled and checked the nails of his fingers.

“Besides, Giselle, I happen to know someone who wants this
man dead more than your father does.  Perhaps I can speak to him and get
his input and influence.”

Giselle stared at him.  Clarence would be a very
dangerous enemy, she realized.  She brought a smile to her face and raised
her empty champagne glass in a silent toast.

Back in the Saddle Again

Jake was glad the winter was behind him.

The last few months had been a whirlwind of activity. 
He could barely remember the assignments, the locales, the faces of the men who
deserved the justice he provided.

Justice.
  What a
funny word to call murder
, he thought. He reasoned that his conscience
would spit the word “murder” out like bad sushi, or choke on it like a foreign
object lodged in his throat.  In order to better swallow the reality that
was his profession, Jake had created the fantasy that he was secretly
protecting something dear to his heart.  The truth was
,
he felt like his heart was as empty as a politician’s promise.  What
compelled him to cling to the moral high ground?  What impelled him to
continue to come to work every day?

He pondered these weighty things while standing in line
awaiting his daily
joe
.  
He stared at the menu board, wondering if he should deviate from his normal
fare.  He was proud of his ability to be unpredictable, but he seemed to
have one habit of bespoken familiarity.   He ordered the same thing
every weekday.  It just seemed to fit. 

Once he had his caramel macchiato and strawberry cream
cheese
danish
in hand, he
made his way to the elevator queue.  Members of his old team were already
there.

“So, I told her that next time, she would have to do better
than just the two tickets to the Brooklyn Nets,” Gary was saying.  Violet
stood next to him, pretending to be interested.  Gary was really just
showing off for the new girl.  She stood, smirking and sipping her coffee.

Violet glanced at him.  He could see the hatred in her
eyes.  He had not seen her in over three weeks.  With the sudden
change of venue, Jake had almost forgotten her.  He wished that he could
erase the feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

The images that ran through his mind were a dragon, a
fiery-headed Gorgon, and an alien with deep black pupils.    He
fought the urge to turn back to the lobby.  Instead, he gave the
obligatory lifting of the chin and a slight smile. 

Nothing untoward has happened between us.  You do
not intimidate me.
  These were the messages he hoped he was
sending. 
I
bested
you
,
he tried to say with his
eyes.  Of course, she would take it as a challenge. 
Or worse, an allurement.

She looked at him fully and licked her finger.

“You ready for another round?  Sergei says you have
been avoiding training,” Violet challenged.

“I don’t have time.  They are keeping me pretty busy on
the 55
^th
floor,” Jake countered.

Her eyes floated from his knees to his eyes slowly. 
Meaningfully.

“That is what everyone is saying.  Remember, it won’t
be the same next time.  The longer you put it off, the more likely it is
that you will be broken when we are done,” Violet offered. 

She made pain sound so…sensuous.  Jake was afraid she
might like it a bit too much.

“Well, they don’t call me Humpty for nothing.  I will
see when I can clear my schedule and shoot you an email,”

The new girl leaned into Gary and whispered something to
him.  Gary smiled and turned away from Jake.  Jake did not fail to
notice.

The elevator doors opened and Jake watched as Gary held it
open for the new girl.  She brushed close to Gary while glancing back at
him.  Something in her eyes seemed familiar.  Or maybe it was her
nose.  Gary winked at him and slipped into the stuffed elevator. 
Jake sighed and sipped his coffee as the door closed.  He could see
Violet’s head bobbing in the middle of the press in the elevator and decided he
would wait.  His stomach could use a break.  Soon, he was making his
way to the floor he had called his home since he had returned from Los Angeles
in January.

The office was bustling with agents, support staff, and
management engaged in activity already.  Some appeared to have been there
all night.  Ties were loosened, coffee cups littered trash cans, and the
tension and surliness were in full force.  Management barked orders. He
heard one staffer, Melissa, he remembered, talking aggressively to someone on
the phone.

It is seven-fifteen, for Pete’s sake.  Don’t they
know it is too early for this?

Jake was used to a leisurely morning routine:  a
coffee, a chat, and maybe some gentle ribbing of his team, before getting
called into meet with his new boss,
Alexandre
Bumont
.  This much activity and fluster meant that
either an assignment went awry or one was at critical mass.  It wasn’t his
department or he would have been called in.  He only had four emails this
morning and all were junk mail. 

Jake sipped his drink.  He may not get the chance to
enjoy it if this 911 spilled over.

Director Dumont was head of the Galbraith Foreign Security
Crisis Team.  The FSCT was instrumental in maintaining the balance of
world order by exacting judgment upon those nations who demonstrated clumsy
grasping of power.  If a Somali war chief got involved in civil rights
atrocities, he would have a dagger in his back within a week.  If a
Colombian cartel drug lord executed a government official or raped and pillaged
a small village, he would end up dead from poisoning.  In essence, Dumont
was responsible for upholding the Galbraith mission statement.

“Good morning, Mr. Monday,” Jill chimed. 

“Good morning, Jill,” he said brightly.  He was more
cheery than he actually felt.  The life of an assassin required an undue
amount of charm.  Many folk were taken more unawares if he seemed jovial,
humorous and likeable.  The famous scowling, brooding, overconfident,
braggadocious, and intimidating assassins seemed to have a short shelf
life.  Jake wanted to be more of a Twinkie than a banana
. 

Of course
, he thought,
Twinkies may be extinct
soon, too.

“Deputy Director Smith would like to see you in her office,”
she said, a smile somehow still on her face.

It was not necessarily that she was pronouncing doom upon
him. The Deputy Director had a demeanor akin to
Anjelica
Houston in
When in Rome
or Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada
. 
She was severe, unforgiving, and supremely intelligent.

Jake could not imagine why he would have any business with
Deputy Director Smith.

“Thank you.  You want
a Danish
? 
Lynn hates it when people eat in her office,” he said, offering Jill his
strawberry Danish with the thumbprint and wax paper wrapping.

“Sure,” she said.  She took it gingerly and dropped it
into the trash as he turned.  Jill was one of the few people in the office
that could see through his farce.  She gave him the same back.  He
knew she was as miserable as him.

When Jill had threatened to blow the whistle on Galbraith’s
illegal activities, someone had threatened her family.  She was still
working under protest and hid her derision for the other staff with a plastic
smile and a syrupy sweet deportment.  Jill was a short-termer.  They
shared that common trait, perhaps and so he forgave her before he even set foot
into the well-lit offices of the Deputy Director.

“Good morning, Mr. Monday,” Deputy Director Lynn said. 
She offered him a chair.

Lynn Smith had hair the color of straw.  It was cut
short like her personality.  She was tall, in her forties, and had deep
lines on either side of her mouth.  Not laugh lines, for sure, he
thought.  More likely, she smoked.  Her fingers were smooth and not
yellowed, but he thought she was as discreet and polished in her smoking habit
as she was fastidious about her personal space.

Everything in the office was at right angles.  It was
all hard, straight lines.  Pictures were aligned
perfectly,
papers on her desk were arranged neatly.  Her desk top was completely
uncluttered except for a closed laptop.  The windows looking out across
the Hudson gave him a good view of the hazy clouds of the morning spring
skyline.  He imagined himself out on the Sound again.  Or better yet,
back in the Pacific.

“Thank you, Director Smith.  To what do I owe the honor
of accompanying you this fine morning?”

“Stow it, Monday.  We have a situation and we need you
immediately.”

“We?”

“Yes.”  She sat, her mouth pulling down, her eyes sad
and…scared.  “We have had communications from our cell in Tokyo.  A
Chinese diplomat was held for ransom last week.”

“Vice-Minister of Foreign Affairs, Zhou
Yonglin
,
you mean?”

“Yes. 
Him.
  He is
dead.  Beijing is on a head hunt.”

“How are we involved?”  Galbraith rarely participated
in political kidnappings.  They were rarely worth it.  Assassination
paid better and had greater significance in controlling the balance of world
affairs.  Chaos for balance sake was the unwritten mission of Mr. Galbraith.

“We were protecting him.  The situation got out of
hand.  He had ties to several of our clients.  Zhou
Yonglin
held relationships that are
key
to maintaining our standing in that community.  Over forty percent of our
revenue is derived from China.”

She seemed nervous.

“What are you not telling
me.
”

She hesitated. Her face was stone.  She had been
beautiful once, he noted.  Now, she seemed too hard, too many edges to be
attractive.  She was
unlove
-able. 
Unloved.
  He could tell by her
spartan
lifestyle, her gruff demeanor, and her unflagging work ethic.  She was a
workaholic, a true patriot, conservative to a fault, and obstinate as a camel.

“Your team will fill in the details.”

“That is not an answer.  Why am I here?”  He
dropped the charm act long enough for her to understand that he was
serious.  It could be costly, but he needed an answer.  She was
making him nervous.  Anything that involved scaring Deputy Director Lynn
Smith would be high on his fear scale.

She sighed.

“You are being followed.  We have evidence that, unbeknownst
to you, someone is interested in your actions.”

He shrugged.

“I am never alone.  Cameras are everywhere.
Adoring fans.
  I even have a stalker, it seems.”

She smiled without humor.

“I have been briefed that your involvement in a recent extracurricular
assignment off the official channels may have put you in direct contact with a
young woman aboard your flight from New York to Los Angeles.”

“The woman with the twisted ankle?”
 
He remembered her; he had not given her a thought. 
Red
hair.
 
Slim, pretty ankles.
 
Freckles at her nose.
 

VANITY.
 
Silver locket.
  He had forgotten that. 
What
did I do with it?

“Yes. 
Her.
  We
investigated it and—“

“Why?”  He was still puzzled over his lack of
memory. 

The locket was small and light in his hand.  He
remembered holding it on the plane, the sun filtering through the clouds and
reflecting off the locket as it twisted from the chain in his hand.  So
familiar yet the memory was muffled, like a person talking through a door, like
voices in another room. 
Why did it seem he knew of this in another
life?

“We need information.  Information is the key to our
control of economic, social, and political balance.  Our data tells us
this lady was not listed on the passenger manifest.  Some of our
researchers feel that she was a government agent.”