“I started in intelligence, just like you, and I never stopped using the skills I have acquired. I used them in business just as much as I did in the early days of my intelligence career. And you’re right, Smolin, it’s all about the power, and what we can do with it for our country. So go out there, cast a wide net for us. Find ways in; establish an asset array. Grab that power for Mother Russia,” Myatlev ended his speech closing his fist in the air.
Judging by the inspired, almost fanatical look in Smolin’s eyes, Myatlev knew he’d chosen well. Smolin was going to do a great job. And yes, he was still good at this; he could still motivate people to go to their death if needed. He still had it in him.
…18
Quentin let his briefcase drop to the floor as soon as he stepped inside his home. Closing the door behind him, he kicked off his shoes and started taking off his work clothes, in a hurry to separate himself from the awful day he’d had in the office.
He lived alone. He had gone through life without feeling the need for a family, and without being tempted to commit to one. There had been relationships in his life, but he managed to keep them at arm’s length somehow, breaking a few hearts in the process. That was why no one waited for him to come home from work, but he didn’t miss that.
He skipped his traditional routine involving a shower followed by a TV dinner, and poured himself a large bourbon instead. He went straight to his home office and powered up his laptop.
He took a big gulp of the distilled spirits, enjoying the sensation it left behind as it went down. It burned his throat, then warmed his stomach, and from there, seeped relaxation in his weary muscles. He massaged his high, prominent forehead, trying to dissipate the early signs of a headache, then opened his Web browser and clicked on one of his favorite links stored among the navigation bar favorites.
The browser immediately opened a site aptly named Rat Olympics, bearing the tag line, “A Cyber Café for the White-Collar Working Wounded.” He logged in and immediately received a welcome message accompanied by a familiar chime.
Welcome, DespeRatt — the system acknowledged him.
Several other users were logged in the chat room, and Quentin typed his first message without having someone specific in mind. Most users there were regulars, familiar with one another.
DespeRatt: I’m having a terrible few days… hope it ends soon.
Another user quickly responded.
LostGirclass="underline" What’s going on?
DespeRatt: My free spirit is dying under the pressures of idiocy. Can’t stand it anymore… I caught myself trying to figure out what he wants instead of doing what’s right.
LostGirclass="underline" It can happen… it’s normal to cave under pressure at some point, we all do. Cut yourself some slack.
DespeRatt: I’m turning conflict-adverse… a fucking coward! I can’t stand it anymore! WTF am I gonna do?
JustAnnonymous: Move on, man, don’t cling to hell, or hell’ll cling to ya’.
LostGirclass="underline" Yup, that’s right. Leaving your hell will seem like the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
DespeRatt: What — and start over from scratch? Having to prove myself every day, not knowing whose ass to kiss? How’s that better?
JustAnnonymous: How many years have you been there?
DespeRatt: Almost thirteen.
JustAnnonymous: That’s your problem. You’ve become codependent, forgotten how to fight, how to get out there and hunt. Wake up!
DespeRatt: Fuck…
JustAnnonymous: I’m willing to bet you don’t even have an updated résumé.
DespeRatt: Okay, I’ll give you that, you win. I can update the damn résumé, but starting over and not being sure who’s who at the new place, etc.?
LostGirclass="underline" Stop lying to yourself… don’t you have to prove yourself every day now, to an adverse manager no less? Do you know whose ass to kiss now? I seriously doubt it, ’cause if you did, you wouldn’t be in this bind.
DespeRatt: Point taken. Arghhh… LostGirl, you have no mercy.
LostGirclass="underline" Oh, but I do… I’m trying to set you free, dear Ratt.
DespeRatt: True. Thank you for your brutal yet kind help.
LostGirclass="underline" Repeat after me: fuck these bastards!
DespeRatt: Yeah, fuck these bastards.
He raised his glass toward an invisible LostGirl and drank down the remnants of his bourbon.
JustAnnonymous: Hear, hear!
DespeRatt: Gotta go now, guys, got a résumé to write. SYT
LostGirclass="underline" See you tomorrow, Ratt, and may your résumé writing be inspired.
Quentin closed the Rat Olympics browser window and opened a Google search page instead. He approached his task with the seriousness he engaged when working on a weapons systems project. Thorough, well documented, well researched, all calculations verified twice, and all steps written down for future reference.
He retrieved several sample defense engineer résumés off the Internet and looked through them. Things had changed dramatically in the past twelve years or so. His current résumé was well below expectations; it was a complete write-off.
He right-clicked on his desktop, created a new Word document, and renamed it QuentinHaddenResume.docx. Then he started typing.
…19
She’d had a moment of inspiration while in the client’s office, working with Brian on his new case, and couldn’t wait to see if it made sense in front of her crazy wall. When she arrived home, she went straight to the blue bedroom, not even bothering to get rid of her high-heeled shoes, and pulled open the curtain hiding the corkboard timeline.
She’d been stuck in this long, boring planning session at the client’s firm, where her role was to observe who might have had a different agenda. While sitting and observing, her mind started speculating on how people gain access to positions of power. What makes them get it, what makes them seek it? What makes others want to be their followers? We all want the same things, she responded to her own thoughts. We want achievement, financial stability, security for our families, and a sense of purpose.
So, then, what the hell could the mysterious Mr. X promised his followers? His followers had been some of the wealthiest men on Earth, natural born leaders, not followers. So how does one enroll the support of such moguls? What would they still want to achieve that they hadn’t already?
The answer was simple: a sense of purpose. The men who had it all had followed Mr. X, or V — if that piece of intel about his name would ever prove to be accurate — to gain or satisfy a sense of purpose.
Her initial thinking might have been wrong. She’d always assumed the common denominator had been the Islamic connection of all conspirators, which canned them as typical Islamist militant terrorists. But that didn’t tie into Russia’s beliefs, interests, or agendas at all. And V was definitely Russian; several sources had confirmed it. That’s why she couldn’t find V. He wasn’t about Islamism, or typical Muslim terrorism. He was about something else, something they all had in common, Muslims or not. Something she hadn’t thought of yet.