TWENTY-SIX
“Who owns Hyacinth?” I ask, suppressing the serpentine twist of fear rising up my back. Focusing on what we know. Setting aside this line of speculation. Knowing who you are fighting is often times more important than why.
“That's turning out to be harder than I thought,” she sighs. She runs her hand over the sheet. “The part where they all have ‘Hyacinth' in their names is pretty easy, but beyond that it turns into a f*cking rabbit hole of shell companies, subsidiaries, and corporate nepotism so off-the-record that I'm going to have to dig up the Twitter accounts of bored socialite CEO wives to figure out who's playing golf with whom—or fishing for marlin or whatever they do for male bonding these days. I can figure it out—I did something similar when I followed the money out of Hachette Falls—but it's going to take a few weeks.”
“I don't think that is a luxury we have.”
“I've got Ralph digging too, and that'll help, but it's just the two of us against a hundred or so lawyers who bill a lot of very expensive hours dirtying up the paper trail.”
“We need a shortcut.”
“And if there is one, I bet it is figuring out what is going on here.” She points to the empty space between Secutores and Hyacinth Holdings. “What's the connection?”
“You don't think they work for Hyacinth?”
She shakes her head. “I know that divisions of a corporation can be working on projects that seem to cancel each other out, and it's typically for a market dominance reason, but it doesn't make sense for Hyacinth Pharmaceuticals to be working on a weed killer with the efficacy of what we saw. These guys have got to be working for someone else.”
She switches to another tab on the laptop's browser. “Secutores has a very dull website. They keep a pretty low profile. They have a page listing their previous ‘employment opportunities.' What a phrase. Okay, here they are. Protection and security for more than two dozen government ambassadors. Intelligence gathering for a bunch of three-letter acronym agencies, a couple of investment firms, one Hollywood studio—I have no idea what the hell that's all about—and some technology companies. Operative training for four governments, a dozen agencies, and twice as many ‘sanctioned' military organizations. And then it turns into a bullet list of services that mean something to some people, I guess: ‘Unconventional Operational Planning,' ‘Counter-drug Services,' ‘Restricted Site Access,' ‘Asset Acquisition,' and ‘Ground Truth Validation.'”
“They sound competent,” I say.
She gives me a raised eyebrow. “This is the sanitized bullshit list, of course. You know what I found on the Internet? Lots of people railing about black ops missions. Unverifiable and vigorously denied by corporate leadership, of course, but there's rumors of everything from espionage—both corporate and political—to aiding rebel insurgents to outright assassination. These guys aren't Boy Scouts.”
“Neither am I,” I point out. “And if you were trying to capture someone like me, these might be the sort of people you'd contract the job to, right?”
She doesn't like the direction I'm taking the conversation, but she nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
“What about the corporate management? Are they bean counters or do they have field experience?”
“Their CEO is a guy named Tony Belfast. English.” She fusses with the trackpad. “Hang on. Let's see if I can find a picture of this guy. There's nothing on the website.” She types a name, hits return, and pops her lips twice while waiting for search results to come back. “Oh shit…” she whispers when the screen loads. She spins the computer around to show me. “That's him.”
“Who?” I ask, my voice hard. The search result has returned a screen full of pictures, most of which are of men who are probably named “Tony” and are wandering around Belfast getting their pictures taken. But the first few are of the same man. Well-dressed, cropped gray hair, looking like an older model.
“The guy from the boat,” Mere says.
And the guy who was in the silver Mercedes in the parking garage at the Adelaide hospital, and who showed up as we were leaving Eden Park.
“That's Albatross,” I realize.
“How do you know?”
“He's a hands-on type. You and I have both seen him, in the field. He'll want to be in the loop on any operation. The others report directly to him. Simplest chain of command.”
Mere shakes her head at my words. “Don't do it,” she says.
“Do what?”
“I know what you're thinking,” she says. “I can read it right there. On your face. ‘I'm going to call him.' That's what your face is saying.”
“I should call him. It's the easiest solution.”
“And the dumbest. Not to mention awkward and more than a little dangerous.”
“It's direct.”
“So let's call it Plan D then, and how about we come up with a few other plans before we settle on this one?”
“D for dumb, is it?”
“D for Desperate is more like it.”
“I suppose we try to rise above that for Plan A then. For Amateur, perhaps?”
“Yes,” she says. “Or Asinine. And B for Backwards.”
“And C would be?”
“Catastrophic. At best.”
“I'm glad you're not pulling any punches with your assessment of my ideas, Mere.”
“Just trying to be useful. You're the one who said you weren't much of a planner.”
“Any other options?”
“Is there anyone else you could call? Who is your contact at Arcadia who is looking out for you?”
“I tried. There wasn't any answer.”
“Really? That seems a little odd.”
“I've never been exiled before either, so I'm going to pretend for a bit longer that this is a temporary technical glitch.”
She sighs and flops down in the chair. “I've got a lot of reading to do.” For a moment, her face sags and I see through her mask, and then she tightens up again and locks everything down with a brave smile. “Can you stay out of trouble for a few hours?”
“I could go get some more cash. You need anything?”
“A fabulous dress, some shoes, and someone to take me dancing.”
“When in Rome…?”
“You know it, mister.”
My short-term memory is very good, especially with sequences like phone numbers. I buy another disposable phone and more calling cards on the way to the park land of San Cristobel. Sitting among the trees on the southern slope of the hill—where cell service is surprisingly good—I punch the number into my new phone and give Mr. Tony Belfast, CEO of Secutores Security, a call.
D for dumb. Dumb is also a synonym for simple. Like plans that work.
He answers with a crisp, British “go.”
“You've been looking for me,” I say.
There's a muffled pause and then his voice comes back again. “I may be. Where are you?”
“In the next room. Where else would I be?”
He laughs at that. “That's a good trick,” he says, “because I'm in my car. You want to try that again?”
“I'm in my office,” I respond, looking up at the sun-limned leaves overhead.
“Ah, a business call, then. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Your people find the laptop? Have you seen the video?”
He's silent for a moment. “I have.”
“Not quite what was supposed to happen, was it?”
“Yes, well. There have been a number of things that haven't gone quite the way they were supposed to.”
“Are you getting hazard pay for this?”
He laughs. “Of course. You think I'd take this job if there wasn't hazard pay?”
“What about bonuses? You get extra if one of us comes in untouched?”
“I'm not really interested in discussing the terms of my compensation package, thank you.”
“How about Hyacinth Holdings?”
“I'm sorry. Hyacinth what?”
I sigh and shake my head. “You've got nothing,” I say, making an informed guess. “You've had a lot of collateral damage—some of it involving American citizens. Too many people know your company is involved. And you haven't delivered what you were supposed to. Whoever is paying you isn't going to keep throwing money at this problem. I'm betting they're already reconsidering how much this is costing them.”
Belfast doesn't say anything.
“You tell your people what you're hunting?” I ask.
“They're professionals,” he replies.
“Sure. But they're getting taken out, and quickly too. I've left survivors. What are they saying?”
“You've gotten lucky,” he snaps.
“Is that what you're telling them? ‘Chins up, gang. His luck will run out.'”
“It already has.”
“What? You think calling you is a mistake? You're not going to track this phone. I'm going to destroy it as soon as we finish talking.”
“Yes, but it has a cell number attached to it, you bloody idiot,” he sputters. “I already know where you're calling from.”
“You're on the wrong continent, aren't you, Tony? It's a pretty big place over here. By the time you get boots on the ground, who knows where I'll be?”
He makes a noise in his throat that is almost a growl. “What do you want?”
“Operational freedom.”
“And you think I'm going to give it to you?” He laughs.
“Who runs Hyacinth?” I say. “If it is someone in your command chain, then they're shitting where they sleep. If it isn't, you've got a competitor.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“We might have a common enemy,” I spell it out for him.
“What sort of operational freedom?” he asks after a moment of silence.
“Steer clear. Let me deal with them. When I'm done, you can have what's left over.”
“Why? What's in it for me?”
“Which is the better payout? A chunk of wet flesh in a freezer bag or a living, breathing Arcadian? Which one is going to save your ass?”
“How can I trust you? You're talking about selling out some of your own.”
“You can't. No more than I can you. But, look at your alternative.”
“Which is?”
“I kill every single one of you.”
“And?” he asks, acting tough and calling my bluff.
It is my turn to laugh. “Every death from here on is going to be slow and painful.”