Project Northwest (11 page)

Mr. Wright had waited for this moment. He
knew it was coming, had lost sleep over it, and in his mind the
answer made perfect sense and should forever conclude any and all
future discussions about K.B. He hoped for the best and began.

“History,” Mr. Wright succinctly stated.

“History? What do you mean history?” scolded
an unknown gentleman through the speakerphone. Apparently, he was
not at all pleased with the simplicity of the answer given.

“Karl Brownstone and Barbara Brownstone had
history, sir. I would choose a better word, but I think it works
well in context. The cufflink setup was meant to control Karl, but
history is like magma, always pushing at the surface, looking for a
weak point and when it finds it, it erupts and wipes out entire
villages. I was blindsided by the history between the couple,
trying to control it is similar to trying to control the forces
that destroyed Pompeii, it’s just not possible. Proof in point,
Karl never asked me once if I was responsible for the cufflinks.
That’s indicative of a deep fissure in their relationship, one I
could not foresee. It was an invaluable lesson learned by me
personally and by my team. I further realize I should never let key
leverage material be controlled by the mark. I made a mistake, but
will never make it again.”

The line was on mute again, Wright’s answer
was being evaluated and measured. Did it have the correct amount
of—somewhere between not too much and not too little—butt kissing?
Did it have the ring of truth? After a full five minutes, the line
was un-muted.

“Very well, we agree. So we’re safe in
assuming that this matter of history has now been identified as a
risk and mitigated?”

“Yes, sir, our new marks, the ones that
performed flawlessly yesterday. One has a girlfriend of only eight
months and they are still in that deep trust stage. He’s lied to
her twice and she has not confronted him on it once. But make no
mistake, he’s in love and for all the right reasons, she is a free
spirit and quite sexual, caring and understanding, quite the envy
amongst my staff. In my professional opinion, it would take a crane
to pull these two apart and that’s the secret to our control over
him, their lack of history affords us better control. I think the
point is obvious now. We’ve had control over the other marks for
some time.”

This time the line stayed open and the
conversation was hushed down to whispering and a number of
uhmm
s and
ah
s as they contemplated the details.

“It seems we’re in agreement,” said the older
man The other four could not agree fast enough, and the entire
conversation shifted to a more pleasant tone.

“Congratulations. The contract is back in
play, get me the numbers as you did yesterday and you and your team
will be drinking champagne at the Setai in Miami or some exotic
island of your choice.”

Cricket beamed when he heard the words
‘exotic island’.

“Yes, thank you, sir. The numbers will be
provided as promised. Would you like to discuss the plan moving
forward?”

“We’re waiting on pins and needles, Mr.
Wright, pins and needles,” said the number cruncher.

Chapter Eight

~ SOS on a Robe ~

James carried Bridget
to the bedroom sometime around four in the morning. He couldn’t
sleep and milled about the condo quietly, so as not to wake her. As
exhausted as he was when they fell asleep watching the tube, he
found himself lying awake on the couch staring at the ceiling. Soon
he crossed into the no man’s land of ‘
falling asleep now would
ruin the day.’
It was too close to his normal wake up time and
he’d be better off if he just stayed awake. He had the nagging
feeling that he’d forgotten something.

He only had two points of control and
examined each under close scrutiny.

He was certain his communication with and
subsequent letter to Mark had not been intercepted by Mr. Wright
and his associates. After scrutiny, he also checked Mark off as
safe in his mind. The other point of contention was the fact that
he had basically stolen Cindy’s cell phone and even when Cindy saw
the long distance call to a number she didn’t recognize, Bridget
could explain it away and the bill might be weeks or a month
away.

Then it hit him; he had asked Bridget to tell
Cindy to not tell anyone, especially if someone came snooping
around. He ran the scenario through his mind for the possible
outcome. If one of the goons sweet-talked Cindy into a conversation
and asked if she’d noticed anything weird about Bridget, would
Cindy say something to the extent of, “Yeah, now that you mention
it, she did take my phone for a couple of hours.” If Cindy said
that, would they have any problem getting the phone, pulling the
numbers dialed and ultimately linking James to Cindy and
discovering the trail that led to Mark?

He knew they would have no problem at all.
Even if they had to rough her up to get it, they would leave no
stone unturned.

He needed to tell Bridget, but he was certain
they had little privacy. Mr. Wright warned him the condo was
bugged. James had found three bugs in the living room alone. Hell,
they even had the banks data room bugged. It was safe to assume, as
sick as it was, they were also being watched.

He refused to let paranoia kick in and
stopped trying to find the little cameras he was sure were there.
Even if he had found them, he had been warned not to mess with
them. If he did mess with them, that mere action would bring strong
retaliation. He’d be accused, and rightfully so, of not playing
nicely. He did not want to imagine the actions that tampering with
the devices would set in motion.

He quietly went to the kitchen and noticed
Bridget’s organizer on the counter—it always sat near the base of
the phone. He considered tearing a piece of paper from the notepad
in the organizer and writing her a note about their ordeal. In the
corner, where the counter joined the backsplash, he saw her black
felt tip pen. It was almost invisible in the shadow.

He leaned on the counter, looked up and along
the valance. He found the camera.

He would’ve never noticed if he had not been
looking for it. It was small, colored to blend into the wood and
placed perfectly to hide in the nook of the valance. If he took the
organizer, a quick before/after comparison on the video and they
would know he took it, maybe not immediately, but he was positive
they would see the swipe when they reviewed it. Again, he would be
accused of not playing nicely.

In a moment of odd brilliance, he knew how to
do it, how to get a note to Bridget under the noses of those
watching. He couldn’t believe his life had come down to this, but
he could not think of another way.

After he convinced himself they could not see
the black pen in the shadow of the backsplash, he cupped it into
his palm and dropped it into the pocket of his robe.

He moved slowly to the couch, pulled the
cover over his head and debated how much he had to reveal to
Bridget. Did she really need to know about the cameras? And if so,
how was he going to explain them—even she, as trusting as she was,
would not believe a bank employee investigator would take it this
far.

What if she found the cameras and he hadn’t
told her—that would be far worse. He concluded he had to tell her
what was going on, he had to trust her.

He opened his robe under the blanket,
extended the flap as far away from his body as he could, slowly
retrieved the pen and at a deliberate slow speed as to not disturb
the blanket over him, began to write the most unfortunate letter of
his life on the inside of his white robe.

‘Bridget, do not be alarmed. Act normal, do
not show any change in emotion. We’re being watched. Mr. Wright is
blackmailing me to provide inside bank information. I’m sorry I
lied before. I thought I was protecting you. The condo is bugged,
the laptop, the car, my phone, your phone, your apartment, my
office—they are all bugged. There are cameras in the condo, they
see and hear everything.’

He paused, ashamed he had done whatever he
had done to make them a target, ashamed he had to drag her into
this. What a dreadful thing he was asking her to do. He had to
trust her and continued writing.

‘I love you and I’m so sorry. If you leave,
they will hurt both of us. If you act out, they will hurt us. We
cannot discuss this. In a couple of weeks, this will all be behind
us. I’m close to learning the true identity of Mr. Wright and will
use that to get us out. You need to tell Cindy to not tell anyone
we borrowed her cell phone or she will be in danger. Please, please
understand. This is not a joke, it’s very real. I love you and am
asking you to trust me. James.’

The next line was the pinnacle of requests
that test most relationships, not will you marry me, although that
is a doozy. This request was even more significant.

‘After you read this and if you still love
me, if you
trust
me, call my office number, let it ring
twice and hang up. I love you.’

He wanted to scream. He wanted to run down to
the parking lot, run down the street until he found the Tahoe he
was sure was out there somewhere. Pull those bastards out by their
hair, put his foot on their throats and beat them senseless. He
wanted to confront them, beat his chest and shout, “
B
ring
it on!
”

Grandstanding is out the door when push comes
to shove and he knew he couldn’t do any of those things. So he
closed his eyes and thought to a future date, the date he would
call Mr. Wright rather than the other way around. The day he would
tell him this little project was over, that he and Bridget were
out.

That thought process led to an obvious flaw
in his plan.

Sure, he could tell Mr. Wright he quit, but
he had no insurance, he had nothing that would prevent them from
rubbing him and Bridget out. Having their names wasn’t going to be
enough. He was certain many dead souls knew the names of their
killers. What did that knowledge do for them? Nothing. They were
still dead and their killers most likely still here, freely walking
around. He had to be sure when push came to shove, that his push
wasn’t responded to with the shove of a couple of bullets into
their temples. He needed something, an idea that made them more
dangerous dead than alive.

He lay under the covers devising plans,
though they started out well, looked promising, each failed and
ended with him in jail, or him seeing no remorse in the eyes of his
killer, or worse yet, him somehow alive attending the funeral of
Bridget before being hauled off to jail.

He was up an hour later, took extra care in
placing the robe on the hook, took his shower, dressed and shook
Bridget, “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.”

Bridget was always slow to wake up. She liked
greeting the day on her own terms, didn’t like schedules, and had
no interest in the rat race. That maze was for others, she was fond
of saying. He finished cooking breakfast, went back into the
bedroom, and found her hugging the pillow, out cold.

“Wake up baby, you have to take me to work,
remember? We only have the one car.” She jerked, obviously had
forgotten, and sat up in bed. The clock showed 7:35. “Five more
minutes, please,” she pleaded as she plopped her head into the
pillow.

“Okay, but only five, I want to get the day
over with.”

He purposely waited twenty minutes before
waking her. She would instantly know they were running late and he
wanted her to be in a rush.

“Wake up. We have to get moving now.”

She sat up again, “Do I have time for a
shower?”

“No, just grab my robe from the hook in the
bathroom. Drop me off and you can eat breakfast and sleep until you
go to work at five.”

She rushed to the bathroom, put on the robe,
slid her feet into her most comfortable slippers, kissed James at
the door. “Sorry, baby, you know I’m always running late.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

She pulled in front of the bank. James leaned
toward her, kissed her and tapped the robe where the note was
written. He tapped it again and said, “I love you and will meet you
at your work later.”

She said she loved him too and waited for him
to cross University before blowing him a kiss. She was back on
University, eager to get home and crawl back into her warm bed.
Traffic was heavier than she expected, although she admitted to
herself she was rarely on the streets at this time, so she wasn’t
sure against what she was comparing her idea of traffic.

The door to the condo closed behind her as
she made her way to the kitchen, quickly devoured the cold eggs,
and took a slice of bacon and a bottle of orange juice from the
fridge into the bedroom with her.

She jumped onto the bed, landing on her
stomach and that’s when she saw the first part of the note on the
inside of the robe. She stared at it, thinking at first that it was
some type of love note.

The note was barely visible, but she managed
to read the first few lines. What she read was enough to scare her
and she froze,
Are they watching me right now
?
she
asked herself. Calculating every move, she repositioned the robe
and read the entire note. She read it again and again. Was this
real? Of course it was, James would not joke about something like
this—he loved her and his job at the bank.

She pulled the robe tight around her, put her
face into the pillow, and screamed. She came up for air, buried her
face, and silently screamed again. The robe smelled of James, hints
of Irish Spring soap, Polo cologne, and some unknown shaving cream.
She loved the smell almost as much as she loved him. There was no
question as to what she was going to do, she just hated that she
had to do it. Hated that James had put her into this situation, she
despised doing it, but the evidence of the note had to disappear
and she felt she had to—she had to do laundry. She silently
screamed into the pillow again.