Abe had a nose for these things.
He opened his front door and the dogs went crazy, tearing down the entry hall and barking like a cat party was being held in the dining room.
Something hit him in the kidneys and he found himself falling face-forward onto the floor, his arms oddly useless and his legs unable to support him. He registered the door closing behind him, and then a figure in a Planet of the Apes mask standing over him.
The pain hit a split second later. His jaw shot lightning bolts of agony through his head, and his left arm throbbed like he’d dislocated it. He barely noticed that his pants were soaked, his bladder having failed. Abe struggled to breathe, but it was as though his rib cage was in a vice that had compressed his lungs to the point where there was no room for expansion. His back felt like a car had hit him.
Tiny dots swirled on the periphery of his vision as the pain coursed through his entire being, before slowly receding until all that remained was a sensation of drifting off to sleep.
Abe’s last thought was that the books had it all wrong.
“A fucking heart attack? You’re kidding me, right?” Sid hissed into the phone.
“Sir, it was instantaneous. I’d say he was dead within seconds of our arrival. There was nothing we could do,” said a detached, calm voice with a slight southern drawl.
“And no information? Nothing?”
“He never made a sound, and we never got a chance to ask him anything. Again, it happened so suddenly it took us all by surprise. The best we could do was sanitize the area and verify there was nothing incriminating. The bad news is there was no sign of the document,” the voice reported.
“We have to find out what he did with it, or who he gave it to. We know he printed at least some of it — so what’s the plan to figure out how to move from here?” Sid asked.
The situation report from that morning had verified that the printer queue had contained instructions to print the attachment, or part of it, before they’d neutralized it along with the communication.
“This is a dead end,” the voice said.
Sid wondered if the man was trying to be amusing. His sense of humor wasn’t in the best shape tonight.
The voice continued. “As I see it, we’ve got two choices, neither of which I particularly recommend over the other. We can either move to the next level of his work circle and try to shake something loose, or we can monitor chatter and wait to see what presents itself,” the voice advised. “The first option could get very messy, and there’s no guarantee anyone was exposed, so it could also be pointless. And there’s a slim likelihood that an entire firm meeting with untimely demises would arouse interest, should anybody later come forward and expose the document.”
“You can’t allow that to happen,” Sid snarled.
“I understand. I do need direction, though. Which option would you like us to explore?”
Sid considered the situation for a few moments, then made his decision.
“I think you need to shake some trees and see what falls out,” Sid advised.
“10-4, sir. I’ll alert you when we have something to report.”
After terminating the call, Sid paced in front of his desk, his footsteps thudding on the hardwood floor. What a nightmare. His team had tremendous resources, and yet they couldn’t neutralize something as simple as a few pages in some geriatric’s inbox.
He ran scenarios, slowing his redlining thoughts until the fuzzy outline of a plan took shape. It wasn’t a great plan by any means, but it was better than nothing.
Sid hit redial, and issued instructions.
It was going to be a long evening.
Chapter 4
Michael had a headache. He’d woken with one, due to a late night watching over the frisky Turkish execs as they demonstrated that they knew how to party, Istanbul style.
Mornings like these, it helped to remind himself that he was being paid handsomely for his services, even if those often amounted to strip club recommendations and door opening. In recent years, his business had shifted away from corporate security and countermeasures to private security; a move that was less a matter of Michael’s choice than a function of companies downsizing in the difficult financial environment. He didn’t really mind, although it got tiring when dealing with out-of-town adult males whose idea of a hoot was to behave like drunk freshmen at a frat party.
He went through his morning ritual, doing forty-five minutes of running on his treadmill and then a half hour of weights and push ups. Exercise had become habitual during his years in the military, and he forced himself to get up early and ‘do the drill’, as he thought of it.
The years had been kind to his naturally athletic build — good genes trumping good intentions every time. He looked something like an ex-jock or a minor-league athlete, which was partially true. There had been dreams of playing baseball in his youth, and he was good, but there was a distinction between being school-good and being pro-good.
Life had shown him the difference.
Michael chose to wear dark blue suits, nothing ostentatious or memorable, but rather conservatively-cut and business-like. He thought of these suits as his uniforms — he was more a sweats and baseball hat kind of guy, but that wasn’t what paying clients wanted to see. His concealed weapons permit added weight to his standing as a pro; they were virtually impossible to obtain for New York City — unless you had friends on the force and in City Hall, both of which Michael did. The cops typically frowned on chaps wandering the streets toting Glock 17s in the Big Apple. His CCW was rarer than hens’ teeth, and he’d had to call in a lot of favors to get it, although he had yet to be in a situation where he actually had to draw his weapon.
Michael had arranged for one of his regular freelancers to play escort for the Turks this morning so he could devote a solid hour or so to Abe. He took the subway downtown and met his electronics specialist, Jim Rolloway, at the front door of the office building. As they rode up in the elevator, Michael wondered how often the contraption was serviced; it really did sound like it was on its last legs. Or maybe it was just him. Jim didn’t seem to notice the jerking and lurching.
They entered Abe’s offices at precisely ten and were greeted with shocked stares from the staff, two of whom were wiping away tears.
Mona approached him, clutching a tissue to her chest. “Mr. Derrigan. I’m so sorry. I should have called and told you not to bother coming in…”
“What’s wrong? Why not?”
“It’s Abe. They found him this morning at his house…he…he passed away. He had a heart attack last night. His neighbor called at nine to let us know — the dogs were howling from about two in the morning, and she called the police when they didn’t stop.”
“I’m…I’m so sorry.” Michael didn’t know what else to say. “Mona, wasn’t it?” Michael offered, somewhat lamely.
She sniffed. “Yes…that’s right…”
“It’s a terrible loss,” Michael said, instantly regretting how clichéd and inadequate it sounded.
“He was a great man,” Mona declared with sincerity.
It was unarguable that she was right. Abe was a legend, with an unwavering sense of talent vindicated by his track record and reputation. It was one of the reasons that Michael had been so excited when his first few chapters had received a validation from Abe — that was as good as it got when having your raw talent vindicated.
Michael gathered his thoughts. “Mona, this is a tragic day. I mean that sincerely. I want to cause as little disruption as possible, so I’m just going to fulfill my commitment and finish the scan of the office I promised, and then we’ll be out of here. Jim, just do a quick sweep of Abe’s room, and I think we’re done,” Michael said, motioning to Abe’s door.