Off Kilter (3 page)

Hamburg, Germany

April 30

Lukas’s text warning him to get out of Hamburg arrived just in time. It served as a stark reminder to Collin of why he was on the run, just when he had nearly convinced himself Pho Nam Penh and his gang had forgotten about him. He was mistaken. They were smart, determined, and patient he remembered Lukas saying.

Following Lukas’s instructions to leave proved to be more difficult than simply packing up and walking away. Within two minutes he stuffed everything he had back into the only two bags he carried. According to what Lukas taught him months ago, he chose to take the stairs instead of the elevator. But as he entered the stairwell, he heard footfalls clamoring on the metal steps some floors below. Someone was coming up the stairs rapidly. A muffled voice, followed by a pause, followed by another subdued response alerted Collin that this was a synchronized search. He turned and grabbed the handle of the door before it slammed shut. He poked his head out into the hallway. There was a man in a suit marching in his direction.
Damn.
No shades, but that suit and that gait looked all too familiar. He couldn’t be sure, but he couldn’t risk it, either. As he held the door ajar, he heard the man in the hallway speak to someone.
But he was walking alone
.

Not thinking, he let go of the handle and ran up the stairs. The door slammed shut by the time Collin, taking the stairs two at a time, made the next landing. Grabbing the rail, he spun and continued his ascent. The footsteps below quickened, and by the time he pulled at the door of the next floor, he heard the voice from the hallway barking commands in a British accent. “North stairwell. Eighth floor. Close on him. I’m right behind.” Collin whipped the door open and sprinted down the hallway, heading for the stairway at the far end of the floor. His speed was track star speed. Always had been. It was something he was proud of, and it was proving valuable. Even with both of his bags over one shoulder, Collin felt like he was practically flying. Must be the adrenaline.

As he reached the tiled corridor halfway to the next exit sign, he noticed the elevator door beginning to close. At the same time, another man in a suit was exiting the stairwell he had hoped to use as his exit. Collin skidded to slow down, then lurched into the elevator car just as the doors shut behind him. To his chagrin, it was going up, not down.

That makes three of them. At least.

Two floors up, Collin bolted out the doors and to his left toward the south stairwell. One of the suits poked his head around the corner from the stairwell door and, seeing Collin coming toward him, stepped into the hallway. Collin was at full speed and didn’t hesitate. As the man reached into his jacket, Collin dropped his bags and went airborne. Before the man in the suit could produce the 9 mm Beretta from its holster, Collin’s feet kicked out, one landing a vicious blow to the man’s chin, the other to his chest. The man flew backward, landing on the burgundy carpet with a thud. His body cushioned Collin’s fall, and he let out a pained grunt as something crunched under Collin’s backside.

In one fluid motion, Collin popped to his feet and through the door to the stairwell, slinging his backpack and computer bag over his shoulder as he went. He leapt down each flight, touching no more than two stairs between landings, one hand on the rail for balance. For ten floors he bounded downward.

His brain was working just as hard as his body. What started with two guys in London had grown to three that he knew of. He had to assume the three brought reinforcements and that someone would be stationed in the lobby. Therefore, he didn’t stop at ground level but continued to the basement, knowing there was a car rental kiosk there.

Exiting the stairwell into the garage, Collin met with a surprise. What appeared to be a high school rugby team from out of town was just loading into a large passenger van twenty yards from him. To his delight, the rear doors to the cargo area were wide open. There was the typical commotion and chaos associated with teenage boys. Punching and pushing and laughing and loud voices and music. With so many bodies and so much activity, no one noticed him slip inside and roll under the back bench. Within seconds someone slammed the doors shut and, speaking German, ordered all those who wanted food to get in and get buckled.

Fifteen minutes later, the van stopped and a group of hungry teenagers and coaches piled out. Collin waited until the voices faded away, then crawled out from his hiding spot.

Thirty minutes after that, he was on a train to Munich.

With his narrow escape from the hotel in Hamburg, Collin knew he would have to step up his intensity and focus to match that of Pho Nam Penh and the Komodos. Otherwise, he was a goner.

It was a long train ride to Munich, giving Collin plenty of time to ponder, analyze, and lament the series of events that brought him to this unenviable state of affairs. He wondered how he had been found and thought back through the previous days and weeks of living life on the run. Time and events and places melted into one another as if his recent memory were more of a soup, void of form or boundaries. Naturally, his mind went back to the beginning, though he begged it not to.

His mind went back to his rather ordinary existence ten months ago. At the time, he thought he hated his life. He hated his sales job. He hated his boss and his insatiable appetite for more. No matter how much Collin sold, it was never enough. He hated his financial situation. No matter how hard he worked, there were always more bills to pay. But he loved his wife and three children dearly. The stress often made it difficult to show it.

Sitting on that Munich-bound train, the lack of sleep and the non-stop tension brought on by the sense of being hunted, memories crept into Collin’s consciousness, like a thin line of invading ants, one after the other, searching. Despite his efforts to resist, his mind went back to the funeral.

Unable to move, Collin sat stone still, head down, eyes closed. His breathing was jagged and labored. His fingers were interlaced across his lap as if in prayer. Maybe it was a prayer. Maybe it was just a momentary pause to deal with the weight of the situation. Dozens of pairs of eyes were on him and he knew it. In that moment, he was immobilized.

When his eyes opened, they took in the green artificial turf that stretched beyond his black, patent leather shoes. It was spread out to protect the grass and conceal the mound of dirt just a yard away. The smell of freshly cut grass, mingled with wet earth and a hint of flowers, sat heavy in the warm air of the mid-July morning. Just a few feet from where he sat was an open hole, a full-sized wooden coffin suspended above it. To his right, there were three more holes; they had smaller coffins hanging over them—belonging to his eight-year-old son Max, his six-year-old daughter Jane, and sweet little Eliza, not quite three. Surreal, devastating, and utterly unimaginable was the sight. He closed his eyes again and fought back hot tears.

Though there was a large crowd of people who had come to show love, support, and shared loss, Collin felt little comfort. Though the words spoken during the funeral were meant to bring peace and strength, Collin felt tormented, alone, and unsure. Though thousands of letters had filled his mailbox, he still felt detached and disconnected. In that moment his life had begun to spin out of control. Normal was forever lost.

His father’s meaty hand squeezed his shoulder. Henry Cook rose slowly. Instinctively, Collin followed and felt the large hand steadying him. Blindly, Collin walked next to his dad who, as always, was solid as a rock. Silently, the two men made their way past the hushed crowd, all adorned in black, all appropriately reverent.

His mother, Sarah, his brother, Richard, his sister, Megan, and his best friend, Rob Howell, followed behind them. Rob had been at Collin’s house since hearing about the accident, putting his busy schedule on hold for the week to help his buddy make the arrangements. The rest of the family felt it natural for Rob to step in and take over as Collin leaned heavily on Rob’s steady, reliable leadership. Rob was like another member of the Cook family. Always had been.

Collin’s mind also recalled the monotony and despair that dragged on for months and how it was shattered on a November morning by the arrival of a FedEx envelope and the cryptic note it contained.

Meet me at Graffiti. 6:00 tonight. Take a taxi. Bring this envelope. It’s important.

-
       
Rob

Collin remembered how Rob gave him a quick hug, then ushered him out the back door of the crowded restaurant and onto a boat at the adjoining marina. The back deck was covered by a fitted, canvas tarp. Rob led him through an opening in the tarp and into the leather and teakwood appointed salon.

While Collin’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, a man who had been seated on a leather sofa rose awkwardly and put out his hand. After a short pause to focus, Collin peered into the face of a man whose funeral he had attended three years earlier. The handshake became an embrace as the dead man drew him near and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wish I could have been there for you, Collin.” As Collin squeezed back, his dear friend added, “I also wish we had managed to meet under more pleasant circumstances.” The softened Germanic accent and the icy blue eyes confirmed that Collin was in the presence of Lukas Mueller, the third member of “The Perfect Trio,” as they were called at Huntington Beach High. Lukas was the brains, Collin the brawn, and Rob the looks and charm.

When Lukas loosened his bear hug, Collin stared in disbelief. “It’s really you,” he said, grabbing his friend’s shoulders. “I can’t believe it.”

“Yes, it is. In the flesh. Resurrected, as it were. Sorry about the fake funeral and all.  I didn’t like putting my friends through that, but it was part of my cover when I went into covert ops with the NSA’s cyber crime response group. Only a handful of people know I’m alive. You’re now one of them, so guard this secret as if your very life depended on it,” Lukas said.

Collin looked puzzled until Lukas broke into a chuckle. “Geez, dude, you had me scared there for a minute,” Collin said as he exhaled.

“Well, it is true. People need to think I’m dead.”

The next six hours were spent on that boat, in the marina, listening to Lukas tell his story. He warned Collin about the danger he was in because of one of Lukas’ MIT classmates, Pho Nam Penh, and his stated desire to disrupt and eventually end the prosperity and gluttonous lifestyle of western civilization. Lukas and Rob detailed Penh’s strategy and known successes in the execution of his plan. Sad tale after sad tale was told of unsuspecting victims and their sometimes horrific demises.

Since the funeral, Lukas cautioned, Collin and the $30 million he was soon to be awarded from the insurance company had become a target. The insurance company, Lukas explained, was one of Penh’s legitimate businesses that hid his nefarious, cyber-terror activities. Every large payout made by this Tranquil Pacific Casualty Insurance Group had been followed by a tragedy, misfortune, or peculiar series of events that left the recipients broken down, hospitalized, imprisoned, or dead. All of their money gone. Lukas had been piecing together the clues and working to bring his cagey classmate to justice for years. But Penh and his syndicate had proven elusive.

Lukas wanted to prevent his dear friend from falling victim to a similar fate and vowed to teach Collin everything he would need to know to run, hide, and out-wit these crafty criminals. A plan for a new life was presented and, with little reason to resist, Collin agreed.

Just after midnight that same night, Rob Howell’s boat left the Petaluma marina with Collin aboard. He was never to return to his home again.

Collin stood and walked down the aisle of the train, past all the sleeping passengers, trying to push aside the memories that made him ache and wish he could go back to his ordinary existence. This new life that had begun that night on Rob’s boat was not the life he wanted to live. Nevertheless, he was not going to let someone else alter it for him again. Not if he could help it.

Munich, Germany

May 1

It was a breezy, cool morning in Munich, Germany. Collin’s train arrived at 7:15 a.m.  The adrenaline rush produced during his getaway from Hamburg and the hours of reliving unwanted memories had eliminated any chance for sleep. Knowing he was being hunted by the guys with the shades didn’t help, either. Who were they? How did they find him? Why now, after months of running? Had he made a mistake? Left a trail? Been turned in? What was going on?

These thoughts replaced the menacing and debilitating memories that had run their course throughout the night. As daylight broke, his mind became occupied with his current predicament instead of with sorrow or guilt or loneliness. That was a good thing. But the fatigue was not. More than anything, Collin just wanted to hunker down somewhere safe and comfortable for a night or two. If only he could be invisible.

Putting his questions aside as he got off the train, he had to focus on getting out of sight and staying there for a while. Getting some sleep would be good, too. The problem was it was too early to check-in to a hotel. Feeling very exposed out in the open, Collin jumped on the first bus that came and rode it downtown. He found a crowded coffee shop with free Wi-Fi and settled into a small booth in the back corner with a view of the front door and easy access to the back door. For two hours he worked on his laptop and scanned every face that walked through the door.

Lukas replied to Collin’s instant messages, expressing his gratitude that Collin had made it out in one piece. The Komodos were so quiet that Lukas had not picked up on any chatter and could not track their movements. He apologized for the dangerous circumstances in which Collin found himself and promised to get him out of it.
Gotta go. Be in touch soon with an updated plan
was the last message he sent before signing off the secure IM protocol he set up especially for his dear friend.

Collin finished the pastry and coffee he had been working on and left the bakery to find another spot to hang out until two thirty, the earliest check-in time for the hotel he booked online.

Time dragged on.  Collin found it increasingly difficult to remain vigilant and on guard. His thoughts wandered and strayed, the lack of sleep bearing down on him. But all he had to do was think back on the events that brought him out of Hamburg, and his mind clicked back into gear.

Weary mentally as well as physically, Collin finally found the quaint, traditional, German hotel near the river and got a room on the top floor of the three story, cube-shaped inn.  The gray stone exterior and the clinging ivy gave the building an Old World feel. The interior also held a centuries-old charm with its towering ceilings, richly colored draperies and rugs, its giant stone fireplace in the center of the lobby, and the antique furnishings. Collin felt as though he had stepped into a time machine. The uniforms of the staff matched the mood set by the architecture and décor.

His room was no less impressive, making him feel lost in the immense space. The ceiling was twelve feet high, with a row of sconce lighting fixtures a foot below the large crown molding. There were three sets of French doors along one wall, each bordered by long draperies, heavy and regal. Through the doors, a small wrought iron balcony clung to the exterior wall, overlooking a manicured garden with pathways meandering through bushes to the Rhine River.

His late lunch arrived while Collin was setting up his computer with all its accessories. In his best German, he thanked the bell hop, asked for his usual collection of American newspapers, and gave him a twenty euro tip for his eager response. He took his tray to the other side of the room and ate the sandwich slowly, looking through the glass doors at the garden full of flowers and green shrubs. Birds flitted from branch to branch, and squirrels scurried from one patch of greenery to another, following their instinctual need to gather. He watched in envy of their carefree existence. Wispy, white clouds stretched across the cobalt sky, hinting at a shifting weather pattern.

The food went in his mouth without being tasted or considered, so preoccupied was his mind. Before he knew it, there was nothing left to eat. He was neither hungry nor full, but this marked the conclusion of an activity that had kept him occupied. Now what?

He had been in the room scarcely an hour, but already Collin felt like a prisoner under house arrest. He had the comfort of a luxurious suite but dared not leave it. The desire to explore this new place and capture some interesting photos for Amy’s scrapbook tugged at his innate tendency to be outside on a beautiful day. He knew he had to resist his native restlessness. Moving about in the open was not an option. Not yet. Despite the dread of confinement, he knew what was best right now. There were too many unknowns out there. No, he wouldn’t leave this room until he had a chance to talk things over with Lukas. It had been several days since they had actually spoken on the phone. Collin needed Lukas’s uncanny knack for making him feel safe, secure, and on course. He would know what to do.

Collin tapped his phone’s screen. His call went straight to voicemail.

Waiting for a return phone call, Collin paced in circles around the palatial suite, rolling the iPhone over and over in his hand. He needed sleep, but he couldn’t hold still. Physically, it felt like his chest was filled with concrete, the weight of it pulling him toward the soft mattress. Mentally, the wheels were churning at a blistering pace and the brakes were inoperable.

Thoughts of his friend Lukas streamed through his mind like a dozen video clips. Short snippets from his time with Lukas on Rob Howell’s boat replayed in brief segments. He recalled Lukas’s familiarity with Pho Nam Penh; Penh’s connection to the insurance company involved in Collin’s lawsuit; the mounting stack of evidence against Penh and Tranquil Pacific Casualty Insurance Group, which he headed; and the reasons Lukas was sure Penh was coming after Collin’s money. Scenes that flashed by included the crash course in all things technical that Collin would need to know, as well as the outline of the plan to run and avoid Penh and his group of thugs, the Komodos. Despite his thorough indoctrination, Lukas had never predicted this many close calls coming this close together. It wasn’t supposed to get dangerous. Collin’s mind was spinning and he needed more than ever the reassurance that only Lukas could provide.

Collin waited as long as he could, then tapped his thumb on his phone to dial Lukas’s number again. It always took several rings for Lukas’s security protocol script to run and verify Collin’s ID and credentials.

Lukas answered this time in his customarily calm and assuring voice. “Hallo, meine freunde. How goes it?”

“I guess I’m OK. I just can’t sleep. Can’t relax. And can’t stop thinking about those guys. That was too close a call. I mean, I’ve never decked someone like that before.  I’m not used to it. What if they show up here?”

“I’ll check footage from the surveillance cameras in the Munich train station first. Then I’ll check the airport.” Even as Lukas said these words, Collin could hear his fingers clicking away at the keys of his computer. “It’ll take a few minutes, but I’ll let you know if there were any hits. But for now, just stay where you are and try to rest. You sound exhausted.”

“I am, and I’ll give it a try. But I can’t stop thinking about it. After all this time, I can’t believe they’re still after me. Why won’t they just leave it alone?”

“That’s not how they operate. Pho Nam Penh is a very patient, meticulous man. He won’t forget a $30 million payout—ever. If he believes there’s a way to get it back, he’ll work tirelessly to that end. He’s a real son of a—”

“But how did they find me? I mean, it’s been months since I’ve picked up a tail. Why now? Did I get too complacent or something?”

“Well, Collin, this is where the news goes from bad to worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“It appears that there is a renewed interest in you and your story. Some pictures of you surfaced on the Internet this week. I didn’t want to worry you until I knew the implications.”

“What pictures?”

“Pictures of you shaking hands with one of Pho Nam Penh’s top lieutenants. I’m sending them to you now.”

Collin paused to open the text message and view the pictures. “What? I’ve never met . . .”

“Apparently you did. Last time you were in the Bahamas—what, two weeks ago? And that’s not the worst of it.”

“It’s not?”

“No. Check out the next picture of you seated at a table with none other than Pho Nam Penh himself.”

“Really? When was that?”

“London, three days ago. The day before the massive hack attack on the Royal Bank of Scotland. The day after you visited that same bank and transferred money out. Remember that?”

“Wait. What are you saying? Are they somehow trying to link me with this guy? Do they think I had something to do with his crimes?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Do you remember sharing a table with a Vietnamese guy in London?”

Collin studied the picture. “I remember this. I was in a crowded pub in Kings Cross, sitting by myself, as usual, just watching TV and eating my dinner when this Asian guy asked if he could share my table. I said sure, since I was just about to leave anyway. I didn’t even say anything else.”

“Well, my friend, you thought nothing of it, I’m sure, but that picture shows you with your hand out, offering him a seat. The next shows the two of you sitting across from each other at a small table, both leaning inward. Looks like a cozy little conversation.”

“I was working on my computer. I didn’t say more than two words to him,” Collin protested.

“That was enough, though,” said Lukas. “They orchestrated this very cleverly. Apparently one of his guys snapped those pictures and posted them for the FBI to find.”

“The FBI? So the guys with the shades are FBI?”

“Probably not. They could have been Interpol, but I doubt that, too. My hunch is that they’re contractors for Pho Nam Penh. I can’t be sure since the facial recognition software didn’t pick up a match on the photos you sent me. The question is: what’s next? That’s what I can’t sort out at the moment.”

“Penh must have a network in Europe looking for me.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s got long tentacles. What alarms me most is that he has now essentially enlisted law enforcement in his search.”

“That’s not what I wanted to hear,” said Collin with a heavy sigh.

“If the FBI believes you are in league with Pho Nam Penh and had something to do with shutting down RBS, they’ll get Interpol involved. You’ll be a high priority international fugitive. When you add the list of attacks Penh is suspected of launching over the past few months, you’ll become one of the World’s Most Wanted. Congratulations, my friend.” Left unsaid were Lukas’s concerns for Collin’s ability to hold things together.

“Oh, great. This is just lovely. I’m going to have this Asian mob
and
every cop in the world after me?”

“I’m afraid so. We’re going to have to take measures, my friend.”

“What measures?”

“Drastic and immediate measures. Let me work on this and get back to you, OK?”

*              *              *              *

Huntington Beach, CA

May 1

At age sixty-three, Sarah Cook had become a Facebooking fool. Her first foray into social media came just a few weeks after Collin’s disappearance. After yesterday’s difficult meeting with Agents Crabtree and McCoy, she doubled her efforts to use this modern medium to reach out and find Collin’s and Amy’s friends. She now had 381 friends, but she was not satisfied, nor would she be, until she got these friends to help bring her lost son home. Most had expressed condolences over the family’s loss and Collin’s subsequent disappearance, but provided no useful information.

Tonight, some ten months after the accident and six months since anyone had seen her youngest child, a familiar name and face appeared on an accepted friend request. Emily Burns was practically part of the family at one point in time. She and Collin dated steadily their entire senior year of high school. Everyone thought they would get married. They were so close and always had so much fun together. “Henry,” she called out from her desk in the den, “come here. You’ve got to see this.”

Henry was watching ESPN in the family room, which was on the other side of the wall from her. He muted the TV and pretended to run to her side, shuffling his slippers along the hardwood floor noisily so she would hear his haste. “Yes, my dear,” he said.

“Come around here and look at who just became my friend on Facebook,” said Sarah, pointing at the computer screen. Emily Burns’s radiant face smiled at them. Naturally beautiful, there was hardly a trace of makeup.

“I’ll be darned,” exclaimed Henry. “Haven’t seen her in years. She looks as good as ever.”

“Yes, she does,” said Sarah. After a pause, she added, “You know, Henry, I don’t remember seeing Emily at the funeral. Do you?”

Henry stopped for a moment, scratching the whiskers on his chin. “No, as a matter of fact. I don’t believe I saw her there.”

“I wonder why she didn’t come,” said Sarah. “Considering she’s the one that tracked us down in Alaska and told us about the accident, I find it very curious that she didn’t attend the funeral.”