Hardy was waiting for him outside the boardroom, and they walked across to the private elevator. Despite the casual dress style and other crap that BP affected to seem more egalitarian, the top executives did retain some of the old privileges, like their own elevator.
“Are the Russians ready for our pre-strike meet?” Dammerman asked, keeping his voice low, though no one else was in the corridor.
“Locked and loaded,” Hardy said. Like Dammerman, BP’s security chief had grown up in working-class Queens. As a cop he’d accumulated a lot of citations for valor, along with a number of brutality and excessive force charges, all of which were dropped. In one of the cases the supposed victim had simply disappeared.
The Russian team of former Spetsnaz operators had shown up in New York three days ago, where they had gathered the needed material for their strike on the NYSE’s backup computer. Dammerman hadn’t had a face-to-face yet, leaving the recruiting, initial briefing, and first significant payment in dollars to Hardy. But he was a hands-on person, and he wanted to see for himself who these guys actually were.
They got on the elevator. The shaft was glass that allowed a spectacular view of the atrium, with gardens that rose as high as the eighteenth floor and offices on the other side of the soaring open space. It wouldn’t stop until it reached the floor the exec who had pushed the button wanted to go.
“We’re all on board?” Hardy asked.
“Yeah, except that Reid’s decided to chase some skirt today, of all days. He’s a horny son of a bitch, but at least he’s got good taste.”
“We’ll have eyes on him, in case you need to get in touch,” Hardy said.
“Even if he’s in the saddle?”
“Especially if he’s in the saddle.” Hardy chuckled. “Who is it this time?”
“Rockingham’s daughter and head of marketing. And she’s not going to let Reid fuck her unless she gets something in return.”