1 Manic Monday (3 page)

His chest was massive.  The suit he wore could not
disguise his girth.  His reading glasses had been stowed somewhere. 
His nose, bent and flaring, was thrust in the air.  Jake noted that Lars
had missed a spot on his chin shaving this morning. 

Jake smelled cigars and expensive cologne as he passed by
seeking a chair.

Lars did not sit behind his desk.  Instead, he leaned
back against a book shelf, his buttocks on a credenza.  He reached over
and poured a finger of dark caramel colored whiskey.

He nodded to Jake, an unspoken question in his gaze.

"No thanks," Jake declined.  He was sure it
was not wise to impair his thinking any more than it already was at this
moment.

Lars smiled as if he had read his thoughts.

He sipped the whiskey and grimaced. 

Johnny Walker, the breakfast of champions
, Jake
thought.

"I suppose you are wondering why I called you
here."

"You want to offer me a raise?"

Lars did not chuckle.  He scratched his forehead with
the hand holding the tumbler.

"Nah.
  I am not
authorized to offer you a raise.  Besides, I think you are compensated
adequately." Lars did not look at him.  He pushed off from the
credenza and crossed to his desk.  He put down the tumbler and picked up a
file.

"You want to assign my next mission already?  I
thought I would get a
week  or
two off."

"You are getting a month off," Lars said as he
flipped through the file casually. 

Jake could not see the contents.  They looked like
black-and-white photos.

"A month?"

"Until further notice.
 
With pay, of course.
  We want you to occupy a new
residence."

"I had plans to stay in New York through the
holidays."

Lars smiled. 

"I didn't know you were sentimental."

Jake shrugged.

"No particular reason.  I just heard a Harry
Connick
, Jr. holiday album and the urge hit me."

"I see.  Well, where we are sending you will
probably sate that urge."

"Really, how?"

"We are sending you to Russia."

"Russia? Why? 
Where?"

Lars handed him the file. 

"All the information you need is in that packet. 
You will meet your new team in two weeks.  Your travel arrangements,
identity, currency, and destination are all in there."  He pointed to
the file and sipped the whiskey again.

Jake sat there in the leather seat holding the file in one
hand.  It was heavy, its sides drooping down threatening to spill its
contents.

"New team?"

Lars shrugged.

"I suppose you will know a few members of the
team.  Gary and Violet are being reassigned there as well."

"Wait.  Are you saying that I am no longer working
alone?"

"Your next assignment will be determined once you
arrive.  You will be out of the loop for one month and then you will be
informed of your next assignment."

"You aren't answering the question."

Lars raised his eyebrows.

"But I am, Mr. Monday.  Now, you should begin
making your arrangements and preparing to leave."

Jake got to his feet and tucked the file under his
arm.  He paused.  Several other questions bubbled to the surface.

"Will you be directing the Russian operations?"

Lars took another sip and sat in the large leather chair
behind his massive desk.  He took a deep breath.

"I am not permitted to return to Mother Russia,
comrade.  And what makes you think your next operation will be in
Russia?"  The look in his eyes told Jake that he expected Jake to
read something into what he was asking.  Jake was too irritated to read
between lines.

Jake swallowed his retort.  He nodded.

"I see.  It has been a pleasure to work for you,
then," Jake said.

"We have not seen the last of one another, Mr.
Monday."

Jake had no idea how to respond to that.  He turned and
left the office, shutting the door with a practiced civility.  What he
wanted to do was to slam it so hard that the hinges broke.

Through gritted teeth he made his way to the corner office
that was his daily companion.  His secretary did not look up as he passed,
a gloom of anger and disappointment hanging around his shoulders. 

He put the file on top of his desk, unopened.  He had
some calls to make and an appointment with Sergei Vissarionovich at
eleven.  He hoped that he could lose himself in the sweat and pain of
training exercise. 

Jake tried to focus.  He brought his laptop back to
life and opened his contact management software.  It was a proprietary,
time-stamped, security-protected, and sophisticated tool.  It was synced
to his contact list on his cell phone.  With the software, he could bring
up a GPS location as well as limited satellite feed of the location of anyone
on the list.  It also provided him with video and audio surveillance in
real time. 
All at the touch of a button.

He stared at the names on the list.  The name he chose
would show up on an internal database and the conversation would be
recorded.  He knew that
every thing
he did was
watched, recorded, and analyzed.

When he was in the field, Jake never considered these
nuances.  In the office, though, he was constantly aware of the eyes and
the visibility of his every move.  It was daunting. 

He considered his conversation with Lars.  At first, he
had been almost pleased to lose Lars as a director.  His demeanor was too
constricting.  His expectations were too demanding.  Jake felt that
he would never be able to completely please the man. 

Jake clicked on a name and waited while his phone began the
series of beeps to indicate that the number had been dialed.  He touched
the speakerphone and waited.

"Jake!  Why are you calling me?  I am still
here in the building."

"I hear you are being reassigned to Russia."

Some hesitation as Gary considered his response.  He
was as aware of their situation as Jake was.  No one was impervious to the
danger.  Not even the head tech specialist.

"Yeah.
  Cold snap,
too.  We better pack warm.  I hear the Slavic girls really know how
to party."

"We can only hope.  I just wanted you to know I
was glad we will be working together again." 

Jake listened for the telltale signs of Gary's lies.

"Yeah.
 
Me too.
 Yeah.  There should be some time for us
to get into some trouble, I think.  I know some guys I went to school with
that live in Moscow.  Maybe they can get us some access to some
parties."

"Sounds great, Gary.  See you in two weeks."

"Yeah.
  Super.  See
ya
," Gary said.  His voice sounded genuine, but
Jake knew he was nervous. 

Gary was always nervous when he lied. 

"See
ya
," Jake
said. 

It was all he really needed to know.  Gary was not
going to Russia.  And neither was he. 

Jake reached across to the file and finally opened it.

Let's Get Physical

The first five minutes of every training session were the
worst.  Jake hated stretching.  He felt so vulnerable.  He was
on his back with his right knee pulled to his nose. 

He could feel the stretch, which was good.  As soon as
he released, he could feel the blood in his head and the feeling that if
someone would come up to him right now and administer a swift kick in his ribs,
he would be a dead man.

He rolled to his side and he was staring right at Violet's
tight bottom.  He looked away, embarrassed.  Violet was
interesting. 
Complicated.
 
Ambitious.
 
Calculating.
 
He imagined that she had taken that very place on the floor on purpose. 
He had almost fallen for the trap. 

Jake was still trying to wrap his mind around the contents
of the file.  Why had Lars lied?  Was his office tapped?  Were
they being pursued by the government? 

He had been assured that the nightly cleaning by the
janitors included a thorough de-bugging.  In addition, it was his
understanding that the walls and windows of the Galbraith Tower were
practically soundproof.

Normally, it would not seem odd, all this secrecy. 
They were, after all, an organization that was committed to terror and
assassination, white collar crimes and embezzlement, money laundering and
protection of criminal assets.  Secrecy and clandestine behavior was the
norm.

However, his conversation with the Director this morning had
been odd in that there seemed to be no overt reasons to conceal the nature of
his assignment.  He could only speculate. 

Perhaps it was client-related.  Sometimes they were
hired by entities larger than themselves.  Once, a small African nation
had come to them wanting arms consultation and the assassination of a tribal
leader.  It had taken them weeks to discern that every communication and
meeting they had held was merely an attempt to infiltrate their organization
and recruit individual talent.  To the chagrin of the Deputy Director,
Lynn Smith, the entire computer network had been hacked, and a malicious worm
embedded.

When dealing with criminals, it was wise to ensure your
friends were vetted.

Sergei stalked around the room, pacing the perimeter with
his hands behind his back as various Galbraith employees stretched, grunted,
and complained.  His regimen was famous throughout the company.  It
was a mixture of
Krav
Magra
,
Spetznaz
Systema
, Russian
military
Sambo
, and several other forms of close
quarter combat methods and movements.  The focus was on using the
environment, employing no-nonsense tactics designed for survival, and
performing with a high level of aggression.  There was little room for
spins, kicks, and fancy leaps.  This was not Hollywood, it was
life-and-death.

The gym was crowded today.  There was barely room to do
the next stretch. Sergei called out the movement.  Each of the students
pulled their torsos up to sitting upon their knees and put their right leg
straight back behind them, knee down.  Their left feet were planted under
their backsides.  Sergei instructed them to move the foot back until it
was under their other knee.

It was an awkward movement, but effective at stretching the
hip flexors, hips, and
glutes
.  These were
typically some of the tightest muscles in the body and with muscle tightness
came
slowness of movement. 

The stretch required that they tilt their pelvis outward
slowly just a few inches on the fulcrum of their foot placed under the knee of
the right leg.  They repeated the same procedure by tilting to the inside
and then did the same stretch with the other leg.

Jake glanced ahead of him at his fellow employees. 
They all were lost in the exercise.  Soon, they would be paired up and
throwing each other all over the room, pounding each other with training sticks
and attacking each other with rubber knives. 

Jake enjoyed this part of his day almost as much as the
sauna time after the workout.  Mostly, it was because he excelled at martial
arts and so success at defeating his opponent was as satisfying as the
relaxation he felt winding down in the heat and steam.

He caught Violet glancing at him as they transitioned to the
final stretching move.  He tried to ignore her.  She was likely just
trying to distract him.  She had been trying to get paired with him during
training for almost a month now.  She was determined to beat him and prove
her skills and prowess.  Perhaps it was simpler than that.  Maybe she
just wanted a chance to seduce him by demonstrating her physicality. 

He was not unaware at how he was viewed by the female
employees.  He was sought after as if he was a prize to be won, a land to
be conquered, a mountain to be climbed, or a bridge to be crossed.  It was
not an uncomfortable position to which to be subjected, but he honestly found
it more amusing than alluring. 

He supposed that sexual exploitation was a two-way street
and that women were as welcome to flex their considerable prowess as men
were.  As the object of these attempts, though, he found that he was
progressively astounded at the brazen and shameless methods being employed by
women that he normally found demure, professional, or quite independent. 

Of course, the normal man's pursuit of the opposite sex was
rarely a sophisticated, low-key, or classy example of courtship or
allurement.  Men were such klutzes at seduction, it was almost
embarrassing.  Women on the other hand were more creative, had more
control of their own position, and, frankly, had more to offer in the long run
than their male counterparts. 

Jake found himself smiling just thinking about it.  It
was good to get his mind off of the upcoming "secret" mission. 
He hoped he would get a partner to spar that outweighed him considerably or had
some high-level training in the martial arts.  He was in the mood for a
challenge.

He licked his lips thinking of some of the more aggressive
Krav
Magra
moves to put an enemy
on the ground quickly.  When it came to fighting, he found he was
instinctive, but fought better if he planned the fight in his head prior to
engaging.  He was certainly flexible, but since many of the encounters for
which they trained were over in a matter of seconds, planning the first move
and the first counterattack were often the only considerations needed.

Sergei called them into line and paired them off. 
Couples would then find a spot and begin the slow sparring, flitting jabs and
uppercuts, blocking with slaps, forearm shivers, and elbows.