In retrospect, Blair Mulligan realized he should have tried anything to stop him. Even put a bullet in his head … if he owned a gun and knew how to use it. Instead, he watched as John Dalton pushed his way past his secretary, entered his office, and took a seat without being asked. “Thanks for seeing me,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
The first thing Blair noticed was his eyes—two black orbs, void of emotion. “You didn’t leave me much choice,” he told him, sounding far less authoritative than he would have liked.
“It’ll all be explained, Mr. Mulligan.” John Dalton’s voice matched the chill in his eyes.
Blair indicated the stack of paper on his desk. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really don’t have time for whatever it is you’re selling.”
“Relax, relax,” Dalton said. “I thought you guys in the toy industry were a fun-loving bunch.”
“Oh, we are,” Blair countered dryly. “It’s a barrel of laughs here in Toyland. Now, what was so important that you barged in here without an appointment?”
“Mr. Mulligan, please. Are you always this uptight?”
Blair was caught between impatience with this intruder and his multitude of concerns. How could he explain to an outsider the intricacies of his convoluted industry? Where nothing remained constant. Where this year was already old news, and he was far into the planning stages for the next.
He again waved at the paper pile on his desk. “If I don’t get through this crap today, I won’t come out from under. Capisce?”
“Mr. Mulligan, your government needs you,” Dalton said, removing a laminated I.D. card from his wallet and handing it over.
Blair had to admit that the man’s identification seemed authentic: it bore a Federal Government seal with a picture of the agent in color, bearing enough of a likeness to pass. The only problem was, Blair wouldn’t know one government bureaucracy from the other.
“BIS,” Dalton said, as if that explained everything. And, after a pause: “Bureau of International Security.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Most people haven’t. And that’s the way we like to keep it.” Dalton was wearing a dark suit of worsted wool and a slate gray tie. Not the most comfortable outfit for a warm April day in New York. His black attaché case resembled a computer bag with enough room for two computers. He dove into it now, removed a three-by-five, black-and-white photograph, and handed it over.
Blair blinked in recognition, unable to hide his surprise.
“Jeremy Samson,” Dalton said, as if the man in the photo needed an introduction.
Blair and Jeremy had gone from being business associates to good friends over the past eight or nine years, and Blair couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why Jeremy would be involved.
“Mr. Samson is a gentile living in a Jewish land,” Dalton continued. “He likes to boast of being an honest businessman. But the truth of the matter is, he has some excellent Arab contacts in mighty high places. You and he meet in Tel Aviv two or three times a year, conduct your affairs, usually spend at least one afternoon playing golf, sharing a Mediterranean dinner together, some wine for you, a Coke for him. He manufactures a number of your products—crafts and puzzles, for the most part—skims a little off the bottom line without you being the wiser. After all, what are friends for? Yet you still believe that relationships in the land of milk and honey are no different from those you cultivate back home. Only problem is, it doesn’t stop there. Like many in Israel, Jeremy has his finger in a myriad of pots, not the least of which is his connection to subversive powers. Those anxious and willing to bring the United States to its knees. As a matter of fact, ever since September 11th…”
Blair didn’t like what Dalton was insinuating. Not one little bit. “And the reason you have come here today?” he interrupted.
“Ever since September 11th, we have become far more vigilant about business being conducted in foreign countries. You are in a position to do your government quite a bit of good.”
Blair held up his hand. “My government happens to be Canadian.”
“We know about your background and where you were born, Mr. Mulligan. But you’ve got your green card now. And we are convinced you would be more than willing to help your adopted country.”
Blair finally smiled. “And what exactly is it that Big Brother expects of me?”
“Do you mind if I smoke?” Dalton asked, reaching into his pocket.
“It’s a no-smoking building.”
Dalton removed a pack of Marlboros, then a matchbook and miniature pillbox made of tin, his portable ashtray. He lit his cigarette and took a long drag. He held it for what seemed forever, then exhaled. His eyes appeared oblivious to the smoke curling beneath their lids. “I don’t want you for an enemy,” he said as if he were placating an imbecile. “Let’s play nice, Mr. Mulligan. It’ll be easier for everyone in the long run.”
Blair’s anger intensified. “It would be easier if one, you didn’t smoke, and two, you stated your case, then left.”
“You’ll be going to Israel later this month.”
An alarm bell went off in Blair’s head. “How do you know where I’ll be traveling to? And when?”
“We are the government, Blair. We—”
“I know, I know,” he stopped him. “You know everything.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, how does my going to Israel have anything to do with the U.S. government? And how is Jeremy Samson involved?”
“If you give me a minute, I can explain. You’ll understand far more if you listen instead of constantly interrupting.”
“Maybe I don’t want to understand,” Blair muttered softly.
“What’s that?”
He looked up. “Nothing. Just get on with it, please.”
Dalton’s voice became even more pretentious, if that were possible. “A few years ago, the United States government was conducting…”
The sound of Dalton’s cell phone going off caused Blair’s cheeks to turn crimson. It wasn’t just a tinkle either, but a volume that could only have been programmed to annoy. He wanted to rip the phone out of Dalton’s grasp, even as the man flipped it open and raised it to his ear.
Blair arose from his desk and walked out, leaving Dalton to his privacy. He moved down the corridor to the small company kitchen and poured himself a decaf, freshly brewed less than an hour ago.
From this vantage point he had a clear view of his showroom. Over a thousand square feet of toy products—from radio-control cars to dolls—most with electronic components. As usual, he was filled with pride when acknowledging his success in New York. A rare accomplishment for a kid from a poor Canadian family.
A career in computer sales after graduating high school had led to a chance meeting with a toy distributor based in Montreal who was seeking a sales manager. Blair assessed the risks and decided to take the plunge.
Their business grew and became profitable. One of the companies they represented specialized in children’s games. The owner of that company, a New York entrepreneur advancing in years, was anxious to bring in someone young enough who could manage and eventually take over his business. Months of discussion led to an agreement that changed Blair’s life. And here he was, ten years later and at the age of thirty-five, president of Toys and More.
But success had not done much to build Blair’s self-esteem. To his way of thinking, he wasn’t the best looking man: face a little too narrow, lips thinner than he would have liked. But his blue eyes helped, along with his thatch of hair that was more sandy than brown. Still, he didn’t delude himself. In sales, his good-enough looks and pleasant-enough personality had managed to get him this far. Not that there weren’t days when doubts loomed up and he envisioned his success vanishing. And returning to the poverty of his youth frightened him more than he wanted to admit.
“Mr. Mulligan?”
Blair put down his cup as Dalton stepped into the kitchen. He looked even more formidable now that he was standing. His bearing was erect, his cold eyes penetrating. “I’m all done,” he said without apology.
There was something in his voice Blair hadn’t noticed before. An accent of some sort. Something foreign. “I’d like to know if you’re expecting any more phone calls,” he said.
Without responding, Dalton turned and headed back to Blair’s office.
“You going to tell me what this is about?” Blair asked once they were seated, the feeling building that he was no longer in charge.
Dalton smiled briefly. “It’s rather simple,” he said. “A few years ago, while conducting covert operations, we happened upon an extremely damaging document. It made a mockery of the relationship some reputable American businessmen had with companies in the State of Israel. What it was telling us was that those with terrorist affiliations had infiltrated many of these organizations. That they were ready to use clever subterfuge, deploying soldiers of fortune far removed from themselves. And your friend, Jeremy Samson, was not only involved, but leading one of these factions.”
The pause that followed felt ominous. Blair refused to believe a word of what was said. Jeremy was one of the most down-to-earth men he had ever known. His friend would not have had the motivation to join a covert movement, let alone to lead it.
He sat up straighter. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “Plain and simple, you have the wrong person. I appreciate you coming to see me today, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.” He stood and held out his hand.
Dalton ignored the offer to shake but stood himself. “It’s no mistake,” he said. “Jeremy Samson claims to live an honorable life. But we know better. The man is corrupt and we need your help to bring him down. I guess I haven’t made myself clear: your government isn’t asking; we are telling you. The option of refusal does not exist…”