The King of Fear: A Garrett Reilly Thriller (17 page)

M
IDTOWN
M
ANHATTAN
, J
UNE
20, 2:52 P.M.

T
he midtown traffic was putting Robert Andrew Wells Jr. in a bad mood. Or maybe it wasn’t the traffic; maybe it was the sun and the heat. Or perhaps it had been the hour he’d spent tiptoeing around Phillip Steinkamp’s stifling apartment, paying his respects to Steinkamp’s widow, eating the homemade canapés and finger food. Sitting shivah was such an odd way to commemorate the dead—couldn’t the Jews just have a service and put people in the ground?

He winced at his own irrational prejudices and looked out the window as Park Avenue sped past his limo. Thomason, his assistant, was in the seat next to him; Dov, his Israeli bodyguard, was in the front next to the driver. Thomason was fielding calls and Dov was giving the world at large his usual do-not-fuck-with-me scowl.

Wells hadn’t known Steinkamp that well. He’d had dinner with him a few times and met him at a few conferences, but Steinkamp lived in a different social milieu from Wells. Steinkamp was a government functionary, albeit a high-level one—and his slightly dingy apartment reflected that. Wells was a corporate titan. His $40 million, two-story apartment on Madison Avenue reflected that as well.

“Sir, Peters again, Operations.” Thomason’s voice snapped Wells out of his reverie. His young assistant was holding up one of his many cell phones.

“What does he want? And can you not use that tone of voice?” What was it about Thomason’s subservient demeanor that so set Wells off? Did it have something to do with a status mismatch, and the uneven vicissitudes of class? Or was it just that Wells didn’t like people who sniveled?

“Sorry, sir.” Thomason waited a moment before continuing. “Peters wants to talk about the ATM changeover.”

“Right.” Wells took the phone. The Operations team wanted his permission to take half the automated teller machines in Manhattan off-line to switch out their operating systems—the ATMs ran on old Microsoft XP platforms, and the programming was beginning to show its age. The Operations people wanted to rejigger all the machines with some fancy, new system that would let them control everything from a central location, cutting the bank-branch labor in half. That would save money and allow better real-time monitoring, which, according to the Operations people, anyway, was a good thing.

Wells wasn’t so sure. Now did not seem like the time. Hadn’t the bank run in Malta been caused in part by a hack of the bank’s ATMs?

Wells fingered the ribbed casing of the cell phone. “Run it by me one more time.”

“Sir, we will close down half the ATMs in Manhattan at midnight,” Peters said quickly. “And upgrade all software remotely with immediate on-site follow-ups. We have fifty-three separate teams to do this.”

“Our people?”

“Mostly. With some independent contractors.”

Wells frowned. Contractors had to be vetted and verified. His security people told him that every day. Trust no one. “Those contractors are cleared?”

“Every single one. And after the switchover, we’ll have a much more robust reporting algorithm across the entire city.”

Wells sighed.
Robust
. He hated that term. This was a
robust
system, that was a
robust
response. Fuck
robust
, he thought. Did
robust
help those idiots in Malta when depositors came rushing for their money?

“If we’re going to start tonight, sir, I’ll need to let our teams know by six this evening.”

Wells checked his Piaget. It was 2:58 p.m. “What could go wrong?”

“Nothing,” Peters said without hesitation.

There was silence on the line. Wells waited out his VP of operations, watching the city pass by, taxicabs and livery trucks, knots of students and gaggles of tourists, the glare of the sun washing out the glass façade of a skyscraper.

“Some customers could be inconvenienced,” Peters finally broke in, admitting that there was no such thing as foolproof. “But people who get money from
ATMs at three in the morning are not our top-line demographic. And word is, JPMorgan Chase has already instituted all of these changes at their ATMs. No offense, but with that kind of head start on us, they may eat our lunch in terms of efficiencies.”

Wells shook his head.
Ah, that was his play.
The competition will eat our lunch. Appeal to your boss’s desire to win, to keep the stock price high, and to not get ousted by a disgruntled board of directors.

“Sir?” Peters said.

Wells touched the smooth glass of the backseat window. The glass was hot from the sun. New York had been intolerably hot, and it was only late June. What would August be like?

“Can I tell everyone we’re good to go?”

Do what is right for you, for your company, for your stockholders, Wells thought. Ignore the naysayers and the snivelers like Thomason. Be strong, be bold, trust your instincts.

“Yes,” he said. “Good to go.”

N
EWARK
, N
EW
J
ERSEY
, J
UNE
20, 3:01 P.M.

T
he moment Garrett heard the news about the pipe bomb, he grabbed his wallet and ran for the elevator, figuring he would take his chances on a shuttle flight to DC. But Patmore wrapped Garrett up in his arms and dragged him back down the hall. Garrett ordered Patmore to let him go, threatening to break his nose with the back of his skull.

Celeste rushed out into the hallway and begged Garrett to calm down. “You’ll never make it onto the plane. They’ll be waiting for you at the TSA line.” A woman from the real estate company down the hall was peeking out from her door. “Please come back into the office. Please.”

He knew Celeste was right. He might not even make it to the airport. Surveillance could pick him up at a myriad of places: the tunnel, the PATH train, Penn Station. Driving was a possibility, but the team had no car, and no way to rent one unmonitored. There was always Greyhound, but surveillance would be just as much of an issue there. He’d be arrested long before he set foot in Washington, DC.

He shook loose from Patmore and stalked angrily back into the offices.

“No one died,” Mitty said, coming in from the other room. She’d been the first to find the AP report online: a bombing at a suburban-DC Best Buy. Four injured. No reported fatalities. Now she was tracking every new bit of information. “That’s what the news is saying. That means she’s alive. She’s okay.”

Garrett let out a long breath. He nodded, relieved but not satisfied. “Did you try her phone?”

Mitty shook her head no. “It’s a bombing, Gare. She’ll be surrounded by FBI agents. They’ll be all over her. We call, they’ll answer.”

Celeste took Garrett by the hand. “She’s in the hospital. With doctors. They’ll take care of her. There’s nothing we can do for her right now. You know that.”

He did know that, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“He knew we’d be right behind him,” Garrett said, pacing the offices while the rest of the team watched, Patmore standing at the front door just in case Garrett tried to bolt again. “He knew we’d track that credit card, and he wanted us to follow him.” Garrett stopped by the window and stared out at downtown Newark. “He’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”

“And scarier,” Bingo added.

“But he doesn’t know where we are now. Where you are. So we’re safe here, at least for the moment,” Celeste said. “He’s not all-knowing.”

Garrett stared down at the plaza below. His head had begun to throb—the pain flared when the stress increased. He massaged his scalp, trying to relieve the ache. Then he saw it: a pair of black Newark Police SUVs pulling up to the building plaza, followed by half a dozen police cars. SWAT officers, clad in black tactical gear, assault rifles slung over their shoulders, piled out of the SUVs and ran toward the building lobby. The rest of the police officers, two dozen in all, brought up the rear, with more cars pulling up to the sidewalk as he watched.

“Yes, he is,” Garrett said.

“Is what?” Celeste.

“All-knowing.”

• • •

They had sixty seconds to get ready. Sixty seconds to delete e-mails, wipe hard drives, shred anything that looked remotely suspicious. Mitty led the charge, being the most tech savvy, and also having the most illegal programs on her laptop. Patmore stashed his Glock in a closet, Celeste sat at a desk, gripping the laminated wood with her fingernails.

Bingo put his hands over his head, just to make sure there were no accidental shootings. “Where I come from, sometimes they just shoot you. For the hell of it.”

Celeste thought that was tragic, but her heart was beating too hard for her to say anything. She was scared—terrified, actually—but was trying to keep it
together. She had no idea if they would be arrested, beat up, shot. All she knew was that a SWAT team was on its way into the building, and everyone in the office was guessing they were coming to the seventh floor.

Sixty seconds elapsed, and nothing happened. Celeste strained to listen for anything out of the ordinary. The ding of the elevator. A muffled shout. Footsteps. But there was nothing, and then, all of sudden, there was everything. A wall of noise.

Celeste wasn’t sure how they had done it—managed to get to their floor and gather outside the office door without making any noise whatsoever—but they had. The door flew open with the pop of a boot on shattered wood, and in moments the offices were filled with SWAT officers, barking orders, waving their rifles around, racing from the central meeting area into each of the side offices.

“Newark Tactical! Down! Down!” the first officers yelled. A pair of them grabbed Patmore and put him onto the floor with a twist of his arm. Celeste, Mitty, and Bingo got an officer apiece, and they also were laid on the ground with astounding rapidity. The room was alive with the thumping of boots and the screams of the officers.

“Where’s the shooter?
Where’s the shooter?
”

“What shooter?” Celeste managed to squeak out as her face was pressed to the floor by a leather glove. “What shooter?” she said again, but she wasn’t sure anyone was listening. She craned her head to watch, but all she could see were black boots and the business end of a few rifles. She heard the thud of shoes on wood, and more cracking of hollow-core doors.

“Room one, clear!”

“Room two, clear!”

“Kitchen, clear!”

An officer slammed his foot next to Celeste’s head and barked at her, “Where the hell is the shooter? Where is he?”

“What shooter are you talking about?” Celeste said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We got a call from this office,” the SWAT officer yelled, his face leering down into Celeste’s field of vision. “White male shooter, armed, holding hostages, threatening to kill them.
Where is the shooter?
”

Celeste blinked, trying to clear her head. Hostages? Threatening to kill
them? She let out a short laugh and said, almost quietly, “There is no shooter.” And then loudly, laughing harder: “The only shooter here is you.”

• • •

The SWAT team took forty-five minutes to clear out of Ascendant’s seventh-floor offices. They spent most of the time talking with each other, complaining, as far as Celeste could hear, about their commanding officer and something about new protocols that they all hated. They didn’t seem overly concerned about Mitty, Patmore, Bingo, or Celeste, although they did do a cursory patdown of each of them, and one officer checked the desk drawers for anything out of the ordinary. No one looked at the top shelf of the back closet, where Patmore had shoved his pistol, and none of the officers seemed particularly surprised by the whole thing.

“You’ve been spoofed,” an officer told Celeste. “Happens a lot lately.” He was older, with a sun-weathered face, and with all his battle gear and his helmet he seemed even bigger than he actually was, and he was no small man. He towered over Celeste. “Two separate phone calls. One male, one female; both said there was a man with a gun in your offices, and he was going to kill people.”

Celeste tried to make light of the idea. “Well, I guess we survived.” But her mind was racing. Whoever had spoofed them knew exactly which office to target, in which building, in which city. They knew where Ascendant was hiding.
They knew everything.

“We get about one a month. There’s a robbery, there’s a rape, an assault. We show up, but there’s nothing going on. Teenagers. Stoners. People with a gripe. One day, someone’s going to get shot by accident, and then the shit will really hit the fan,” the officer said. “Excuse my French.”

Celeste shrugged, as if it were all a big joke, but her hands were shaking.

“Can you think of someone who would want to play a trick like that on you? Someone with an ax to grind with your company?”

Celeste looked across the room to Bingo and Mitty, who were listening carefully to the conversation. Mitty shook her head ever so slightly.

“No, not really,” Celeste said. “We’re a big, happy family.”

The officer peered around the offices. “Technology firm?”

“Start-up,” Celeste said. “Brand-new.”

The officer pointed to a couch in the corner with a blanket draped over it. “You sleep here?”

“Tech is brutal business. We can’t get behind.”

He seemed to accept that as a reasonable answer, and the officers packed up to go. He gave Celeste his card as the SWAT team tromped out the door. “I just want to thank you for bringing your business to Newark. The city needs it.”

“Sure.” Celeste tried to close the door after him. It was hanging on one hinge, and the lock and doorknob were completely shattered. She stood there a moment, to catch her breath, when there was another knock. She opened the door. “Yeah?”

It was the older SWAT officer again. “One of my guys noticed that you have five desks, five machines, but there’s only four of you here. Is anyone missing?”

“No. Just an extra desk. We’re hoping to start hiring soon.” Celeste smiled broadly at the officer. “If you know anyone with programming skills, send them our way.”

“Okay, sure.” He gave the place one last look. “Will do.”