Project Northwest (10 page)

“Cricket, you’ll be up at five to purchase
coffee, pastries, and your choice of warm food for the rest of the
team.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the surveillance
technician. He didn’t like the nickname, but the more he whined
about it, the more it stuck. The others had already taken to
purchasing and secretly leaving rubber crickets, Jiminy the
Cricket, and other cricket novelties to enforce the inside
joke.

One of the associates dimmed the lights and
soon they all found the nearest soft spot. Mr. Wright took the
couch and fell asleep to the hum of the servers in the room.
Minutes later, the room filled with the deep snores of Mr. Wright,
brought about by the scotch and lack of sleep.

Cricket moved the ottoman, situated his feet
on it, and leaned back in his chair. He donned the headphones and
fell asleep listening to the condo above. It was a Monday night and
the world was quiet, just as it should be.

Cricket was awakened by a motion alarm in the
condo above at about four in the morning. He was groggy and watched
as James carried Bridget to the bedroom, paced around the living
room for a while, went to the kitchen, then looked directly at the
camera.
Did he see it?
Cricket wondered. He was thankful
when James finally went back to the couch, pulled the cover over
his head, and went back to sleep.

Cricket reset the motion alarm and caught a
few more
Z
s.

Chapter Seven

~ The Brownstones ~

Wright didn’t sleep
well through the night. He knew Karl Brownstone’s name would be
peppered throughout the conference call. The entire incident would
be used as a crude calibration tool forcing him to attest that this
time, things were different. That this time, he and his team had
full control over the mark and should be rewarded the remainder of
the contract. The body count of this project would, in fact, stay
stuck at one.

He repositioned the pillow and stared at the
ceiling, thinking of how he lost control.

Karl Brownstone was the first mark for
Project Northwest, similar to James in many ways. Karl was a model
OTS agent, always on time, dependable, a family man, nice home, and
he had money in the bank.

However, holidays seem to stress certain
relationships and that wasn’t helped when Mrs. Brownstone of ten
years gave Karl the wrong Christmas present, a set of monogrammed
cufflinks with the wrong initials. They immortalized the initials
‘P.N.W’
, nowhere close to his initials of ‘
K.P.B’
. Of
course, Mrs. Brownstone blamed the mix-up on the jeweler. “The
jeweler had simply put someone else’s cufflinks into Karl’s box and
wrapped it without checking,” she said. She was sure it was an
honest mistake and could be easily corrected on Wednesday. Further
questions ensued, but Mrs. Brownstone did not admit to having an
affair and didn’t take kindly to being accused of something she
swore had not taken place.

Wright heard the entire conversation and
while he was concerned his mark was now tainted, he felt Karl was
still a manageable risk. Nothing had taken place that would throw
the project off course—that was until Karl hit her.

Karl sat quietly, fuming under the surface,
as Barbara apologized for the confusion in the gift and left it at
that. He only asked two questions.

“Does he have my cufflinks?”

“No, I only bought the one pair, Karl.”

“So, when buying my Christmas present, you
were thinking of him?”

“What? No, Karl, I—”

“The initials weren’t telepathically relayed,
Barb. You had to say or write them to place the order. It’s obvious
to me you placed the order, but were thinking of him, hence the
wrong initials. It’s not that hard to figure out.”

Mrs. Brownstone slapped him first and he
struck back hard, too hard, busting her nose in the process.

Soon, they were in a full-fledged argument,
voices raised, items being thrown, with verbal threats to spare.
History from years ago was brought into the fight as a third party,
nothing was off limits, every past transgression was fair game and
unknown to Mr. Wright, there were a number of transgressions.
Another physical confrontation was followed by a phone call to the
police.

Mr. Wright knew what was coming next and
hurriedly had his team change into police uniforms for the sole
purpose of extracting Karl. But a real patrol unit was already in
the area due to another domestic violence call. The uptick in
patrol units was common during the holidays and even more so with
the stress that the financial markets were experiencing. Domestic
violence was on the rise, even in neighborhoods that could be the
subject of Norman Rockwell paintings. However, Mr. Rockwell
would’ve left out the number of ‘For Sale by Owner’ signs that
plagued the Brownstones’ neighborhood.

The cops beat his team to the house by mere
seconds and arrested Karl for domestic violence and resisting
arrest.

That was the beginning of the downslide.

Karl, having been arrested, came home the
next day to find a painful letter in place of his wife. Having been
a pre-law student and paralegal, she was short on emotion and brisk
on the points. She’d left and taken half the money in the bank
account. She had no further interest in the marriage, wished not to
be contacted, and insisted that all communication be directed to
her lawyer. Her only emotion was to say she was sorry he had been
arrested, but she continued to proclaim her innocence. She did not
have an affair, she wasn’t coming back, and it was that simple. It
was over.

On Thursday the 27th, Karl was summoned to an
office in the bank building and informed he was being let go for
violation of OTS conduct rules. After that, Karl drank most of
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Mr. Wright didn’t have anyone in
place yet, on the inside of the bank, to protect Karl and watched
in horror as his mark was going downhill fast. It was clear that he
was now becoming a threat to the project. There’s simply nothing
more dangerous, more unpredictable, than a man with nothing to
lose.

Monday, the 31st, Mr. Wright met with Karl to
gauge his control over Karl, over the new developments in the
situation. The meeting ended with Karl saying he just didn’t care
and he was going to tell anyone and everyone about Project
Northwest and what they tried to force him to do.

He knew Karl had to be taken seriously. His
drunken phone calls were all heard and recorded and he was calling
everyone about the supposed affair, seeking advice he had no
intention of taking. Project Northwest wasn’t even personal. It
meant nothing to Karl now – it was easy to see him spilling the
beans about all the details, just as he had threatened to do. That
could not happen.

Wright contacted Karl at noon on the
1
^st
of January and said he had good news. He could get
Karl his job back and they should meet at the lobby of a nearby
Embassy Suites.

He knew the man was in trouble, deep
out-of-his-mind trouble, when Karl showed up drunk wearing the
cufflinks that started this downward spiral. Wright’s team escorted
Karl to the room and forced him to drink more than any human
possibly should. Karl was semi–conscious when he was placed in his
car along with an open bottle of 180 Proof Vodka and enough
medication to kill a group of 60s rock stars.

Above the ferry terminal, they doused the
interior of the car with the vodka, placed the pills within arm’s
reach, lit the smoldering device in the floorboard, slammed the gas
pedal to the floor with Karl’s shoe, and put the car in drive.

The vehicle hit the concrete barrier doing at
least fifty miles an hour and burst into flames. The coroner stated
that Karl Brownstone most likely blacked out and was dead from the
deadly combination of medications and alcohol before the vehicle
even hit the barrier.

Wright had pushed too hard in his attempt to
gain control of Karl. Changing the initials on the cufflinks on the
order form had been a mistake. But the biggest mistake was letting
Karl get them. Once the deed is done it’s impossible to reverse. He
knew better now, to never let your mark get control of key leverage
material. Show it to them—sure—

but never let them have control of it.

The team contemplated a classic murder
suicide setup, but those types of setups were too complex, were
always too messy, and raised too many questions. Plus, the
touchy-feely government types would want to come in and offer
counseling and re-evaluate all his co-workers. His client didn’t
have the kind of time. No, it was agreed by all present that anyone
could relate to a man down on his luck and taking it a step too
far. Hell, the guy had been drinking for days straight and everyone
knew it.

With enough vodka in him to pickle a
watermelon, the accident proved to be an excellent cover. Not a
single question surfaced and it was written off as a sad series of
personal events. What kept Mr. Wright up at nights, interrupted his
sleep even when he was exhausted, were the similarities between his
own life and Karl’s life. He and Karl had more in common than
differences: similar backgrounds, both were family men, both
successful—he could’ve easily, in the past, been Mr. Brownstone,
opening that present and crashing into a barrier six days
later.

He questioned: “Are we all really just three
little words, actions or initials away from losing our minds,
losing everything?” He never found the answer while sleeping and
fought the urge to even think about it while he was awake.

* * * *

Cricket did well, by all accounts. The team
in Condo 503 woke to the smell of fresh coffee, an assortment of
pastries, along with egg, cheese and sausage breakfast burritos.
The burritos never stood a chance. The platter was empty in
seconds. Mr. Wrong, having arrived early in the morning, took two
burritos and was reluctant to share until Mr. Wright put out his
hand. Even then he deeply considered his options before handing it
over.

“Cricket, are we ready for the call?” Wright
asked with a mouthful of burrito.

“Yes, sir.”

“Will this secure line be garbled like it was
last time?”

“No, sir, we’re punching through SIP to our
own dedicated server with our own security certificates. The
packets will be encrypted. We’re basically off the public service
telephone network. I’d say it’s as secure as talking face to face,”
Cricket offered.

“A simple no would’ve sufficed, Cricket,
especially this early in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, bring it up at six fifty-nine on the
dot.” He topped off his coffee cup, slid the door open to the
balcony, and watched the sun rise over the Cascade Mountains. The
sun didn’t track east to west as he was used to. It moved slowly
west while taking a southerly path over Oregon. It was as if the
sun tiptoed by the sleeping giants, not wanting to wake them. He
conceptualized the possible questions on the upcoming conference
call and chose the correct answer to each. He was ready and finally
had his answers to the questions that kept him awake at night.

A few keystrokes, a security code, and the
polycom speakerphone connected to an unknown location in New York
State.

“Good morning. I assume we will skip the
introductions,” suggested Mr. Wright. It was a rhetorical statement
and did not receive a response. The laptop screen was blank. The
only movement was the microphone meter as he spoke. Without a face
to pin a name to, what was the point in introductions?

“Very well, I trust by the data delivered
yesterday in real time, that our client is pleased.”

“Yes, we are very pleased with the results.
Can we expect the same today and thereafter?” asked a rather
anxious person with a wavering voice. Mr. Wright knew in his gut
that it was a number cruncher talking.

“Absolutely, we have complete control over
the mark.”

“You’ve said that before, Mr. Wright, and I
shouldn’t have to remind you of K.B. Giving credit for the
expedient clean-up of that mess, it goes without saying that it was
a complete cluster fuck,” a voice boasting of authority stated.

Mr. Wright envisioned the authoritative
person drinking Brandy at nine in the morning while smoking an
Arturo Fuente Hemmingway cigar, letting the smoke cloak the
portrait of some unyielding, scolding, old bag of a man with the
obligatory white hunting dog near his knee. The painting, of
course, would be hung with honor over the director’s chair in the
boardroom, right above this asshole’s head.

Mr. Wright bit his tongue and said what was
expected. There was, after all, a certain protocol to be followed.
“I certainly understand your point of view and I can only say that
this mark is completely, one hundred percent, under our control.
Proof in point, the numbers you requested and we provided in real
time yesterday.”

The faceless voice said, “Uhmmm,” as he
pondered the response and the icon on the laptop showed the line
had been muted, the lights on the polycom turned red. They were now
discussing—well, really, the authority figure was saying and the
others were agreeing—Mr. Wright’s answer and deciding that it just
wasn’t good enough.

The mute icon changed. “Mr. Wright, I know
this is an impossible question to answer, but I will ask it anyway.
Can you guarantee the numbers we received yesterday will in fact be
available each and every business day until we conclude our
business?” It was more of a challenge than a question.

“Yes, sir, I can.”

“How can you be so sure? There are four men
here, all with varying backgrounds and degrees from some of the
best institutions in the world. I can see them shaking their heads,
yet I hear you saying ‘yes’, Mr. Wright. There appears to be some
confusion. Forgive my frankness, but how can you be certain?”