The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (26 page)

“Max,” he called out, when Helen was out of earshot.

The man turned around, looking Connelly up and down, suspicion written all over his face.

“Who’s asking?”

“Mike Connelly,” he said.

“Mike Connelly,” Max said slowly, a frown momentarily creasing his features as he tried to place the name. “The driver who saved Jason?”

“Among other things,” said Mike, smiling. He felt he made a good choice by approaching the man.

“What do you want? Do you know where Jason is?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mike, “but I can help you find him.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because Jason is the key, Max,” he said, “and because the failed coup is just the beginning. Those people won’t stop, and we need,
he needs,
every ally he can get.”

“The coup? What does it have to do with the coup?”

“You don’t expect me to tell you all this on the street, do you?” Mike looked around, making sure nobody was close enough to overhear them. He watched Max’s face as the man tried to make a decision.

“Alright,” Max finally said, “let’s go.”

The two started to walk again, Max leading them back to his place.

“One more thing,” said Mike as he limped along, trying to keep the pace, “the guy you’ve just met. Whatever you were trying to do, you don’t want his help, trust me on this.”

“I don’t trust you yet,” said Max curtly, “but I trust someone who recommended him a whole lot. “The only reason I’m even talking to you is because Jason said you saved his life. But there’s a long road between us talking and me trusting you.”

“Fair enough,” said Mike, “fair enough.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, Mike limping along, trying to keep up with Max.

“You must trust me at least somewhat to bring you to your place,” he said, smiling, as they entered the private elevator in Max’s building.

“I looked into you, you know,” Max said when the doors closed and the elevator started to climb, “after what happened to Jason on his way to the airport. I couldn’t find a whole lot on you in the net, but there were enough crumbs to draw some conclusions.”

The doors chimed and they entered Max’s penthouse.

“And what were your conclusions?”

“Black Ops background, CIA, if I had to guess. I found your payroll records indicating that you worked for Guardian Manufacturing, but you also have a limo company registered to your name. That makes me think that neither of those are your real jobs, and you’re still working for some governmental agency. How am I doing so far?”

“I would clap, if I could.” Mike lifted his arm in a sling. “I think you are a capable guy, and loyal to Jason, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Alright, I’m listening.” Max sat on the sofa, motioning to Connelly to do the same.

“Thanks.” Mike gingerly lowered himself to the sofa, trying not to disturb his wounded leg. “Man, I hate being like this.”

“This will require a bit of history,” he began, once he settled on the couch. “Few historic moments had so many consequences for this country, and perhaps for the whole world, as the 9/11 attacks and the financial meltdown of 2008. The former opened the doors to the creation of the Patriot Act that gave, what many argue, unconstitutional powers to the government. The latter, for the first time in history perhaps, highlighted how truly powerful some corporations were. It also made clear how interconnected the modern world was. Turmoil, whether political or economic, now spilled over countries’ borders with ease.”

Mike paused for a second, collecting his thoughts.

“Understandably,” he continued, “that made a lot of people nervous; however, only two groups of people were able to do something about it.”

“The government and the corporations,” interjected Max.

“Precisely,” said Connelly. “The government continued its encroachment on civil liberties, fueled by paranoid visions of terrorists and corporate interests taking over. The corporations continued exerting pressure on the government indirectly through lobbying groups and directly through bribes. It’s gotten worse after the financial crisis as the market segmentation decreased as smaller players got wiped out. That made the companies that were still standing even more powerful.”

“That’s all well and good, but so far it’s all common knowledge,” said Max, “and what does it have to do with Jason?”

“I’m getting there. At some point during the financial crisis, a senior CIA consultant put forward a proposal for a creation of a new agency code-named the Unit. The idea was to create a force to protect the government while staying outside of the government. No congressional oversight, no red tape. They would recruit volunteers from elite units like SEALS, Delta Force, and so on.”

“A black ops unit within the black ops,” said Max, processing the implications.

“That’s right,” continued Connelly. “The plan had been accepted, a small committee was created to oversee the operations, and the CIA consultant who came up with the idea in the first place, was put in charge of it. The name of the consultant was Andrew Hunt.”

“Holy shit. Jason’s dad? I had no idea.” Max paused for a moment. “But it kind of makes sense. And explains why he ‘retired’ so early.”

“Yes. I recently found out that Andrew actually approached Jason and asked him to work as an analyst for the unit when he graduated college, but he turned his father down.”

“So what happened after?”

“Well, apparently about the same time a few corporate executives and some high-ranking members of organized crime conspired to create an agency of their own. An international organization whose members were so powerful that they could influence political process in their respective countries. With the idea that if they combined forces they would become unstoppable.”

“Unstoppable, like taking over the world? The Illuminati kind of craziness?” Max chuckled at the thought.

“Does it still sound like bullshit even after the failed coup?” Mike watched the other man’s face turn serious. “They might have failed this time, but for the past few years they’ve been slowly but surely gaining ground, and if nothing changes, their next attempt won’t be a failure.”

“Does that organization have a name?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said Mike. “I just know that the key players have alphanumeric designations. Like Alpha One, or Beta Two, and so on.”

He paused for a moment, collecting thoughts, then continued. “At some point Andrew and the members of the committee became aware of the conspiracy. They realized they also needed the global reach. That’s when the International Serious Crimes Directorate was born and the Interpol was the perfect cover for it.”

“I found some emails,” said Max hesitantly. “I showed them to Jason as well. They made me think that his parents were killed on orders of Alexander Engle. Is that what happened?”

“While I don’t know for sure,” said Connelly, “it’s likely, considering that at some point they became aware of the Unit and that Alexander is known as Alpha Two within the organization.”

“Alpha Two? So he’s not even the one in charge?”

“I’m not sure,” said Mike. “We think there might be another player, but Alexander surely
seems
to be the top guy, so the name might be just a decoy, in case there was a leak. But like I said, I don’t really know.”

“What happened when you were driving Jason from the airport?”

“We were hit by Engel’s rivals,” said Connelly, “There’s another powerful group backed by General Armaments whose bosses don’t share Engel’s vision. Working for Engel provided me a perfect cover to dig into his network while actively trying to sabotage GA’s plans. I didn’t recognize who Jason was, initially. Not even when he said his name. A bit of extra weight and that long hair threw me off. It only dawned on me much later. I should’ve guessed when I was dropping them off. He was cool and collected after such a stressful situation, and for a moment he looked like his old man.”

“You knew his father?”

“Andrew recruited me to the Unit,” said Mike, smiling, “and while there were numerous times when I regretted that decision. I am who I am today because of him. Now.” He looked Max in the eye. “Let’s find Jason Hunt.”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” Lily chanted as she banged her spoon on the table. “Can I
please
watch some cartoons?”

“Laura, where are you? I need Lily’s jacket,” Latham Watkins yelled toward the back of the house, then turned back to the girl and patted her shoulder. “C’mon, honey, put on your shoes. We are going to be late for school. We’ll watch cartoons in the evening.”

“I’m coming.” A large woman in her mid-thirties appeared at the kitchen carrying a bright pink jacket with faux fur. She helped Latham get the girl dressed.

“You’re good to go, little bunny,” she said, kissing Lily on the cheek. “Please listen to daddy, will you?”

As Latham drove his daughter to school, he thought about the meeting scheduled for this afternoon. The plan that he’d set in motion after he met the police captain had been working so far. Whatever lie Brennan told his contact it must have been convincing enough for them to agree to a meeting. Watkins didn’t expect the man, who was so far only known as Alpha One, to show up himself, of course, but whoever was coming instead of him would be higher on the totem pole.

“What are you selling today, Daddy?” Lily interrupted his chain of thought.

To everyone outside of his actual employment, Latham Watkins was a successful pharmaceutical salesman. It was a good cover that explained an ever changing schedule and frequent corporate trips.

“There’s this new drug, honey,” he said patiently, “that helps people who have dementia.”

“What’s a dementia?”

“That’s a terrible disease,” he said, thinking of his mother, who suffered from it for the past twenty years. “It makes you forget things.”

“What kind of things?” Lily asked. “Like math tables?”

“Among other things,” he said absent-mindedly.

He dropped her off at the entrance of the school, a posh four-story building with bas-reliefs adorning its façade. Lily gave him a quick kiss and ran toward the group of teachers.

“Remember, your mother is picking you up today,” he shouted as he watched her run.

She waved her hand, letting him know she’d heard.

He watched her go, then put the car into drive. There was some prep work he needed to do before today’s meeting.

When Latham arrived to his office, he went through the same routine he always had before a potentially hostile encounter. He sat at his desk and neatly wrote down threats that he could anticipate in a meeting like that. Following Latham’s directives, Brennan had set it up in front of Bryant Park. In such a public place Watkins wasn’t too concerned about being shot or kidnapped, although he didn’t rule out the possibility of either completely. There was a danger of being stabbed or simply beaten to death.

After some consideration Watkins decided to put on a protective mesh. While not as robust as a bulletproof vest, it would be good enough to stop a blade or a kick.

He dove into the multiple drawers that lined the walls of his office and dug out the biofilters for his nostrils as well as a pair of fake skin gloves with micro pins at his fingerprints. A small can of aerosol and two bottles of clear liquid completed his preparations.

Latham arrived at the rendezvous point ten minutes too early. The bench in front of the park where Brennan’s contact would be sitting was still empty, and Watkins walked by it without slowing down. It was cold and the flow of office workers on their lunch break and tourists wandering around was too light to his liking, but it would have to do. He stopped by a food cart on the corner of 42
nd
Street and bought himself a hot dog and a can of soda and started slowly walking back to the bench.

The bench wasn’t empty anymore. A small well-toned Asian man in an expensive looking coat was sitting there, watching the traffic crawl on 6
th
Avenue. He looked relaxed, both hands resting on the back of the bench, his jet-black hair flowing in the cold wind.

Latham slowed even more, biting into the hot dog and watching the man with a corner of his eye. Something was wrong. The man didn’t look like a low-level agent who came here to meet another nobody. Watkins felt scared. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk for a moment, making a show of cleaning up ketchup from his lips, trying to decide what to do.

Screw this,
he thought.
Let Brennan figure out how to explain why he stood up this guy.

He turned around to walk away and bumped into a seven-foot tall man who grabbed his shoulder in a bone-crushing grip.

“What the fuck,” he cried out, trying to free himself, and punched the big man in the gut. It was like hitting a bulldozer. The man didn’t say anything and started dragging Latham toward the bench.

Watkins fished out the small aerosol and sprayed the mountain of a man in the face. The big man stopped for a moment, wrenched the can out of Latham’s hands, and threw it away, then lazily hit him across the face with the back of his hand. By the time Latham stopped seeing stars, the man shoved him down onto the bench next to the Asian man.

“We’re quite aware of your fascination with chemical compounds, Mr. Watkins,” said the man with a strong British accent, “so please forgive me for ruining your little plan.”

“Who the fuck are you?” said Latham, rubbing his face. It still stung.

“My name is Victor Ye. Some people know me as Alpha One. Isn’t it what you wanted to know?”

“Well.” Latham sat up straight and looked Victor in the eye. “What I really want to know is if you’re playing us.”

“By us, you mean Mr. Engle?”

“Not just him,” said Watkins, “the entire Organization.”

“We live in a complicated world, Mr. Watkins,” Victor said. “Do you play chess?”

“No.”

“But I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept. One must think a few moves ahead to win the game. Sometimes masters make moves that seem weak, or strange, to a neophyte. They sacrifice pieces and get their opponents excited at the thought of catching the master making a crucial mistake. Then,
poof.
” He waved his hand. “Their dreams evaporate. Checkmate.”