WILDWATER’S CORPORATE HEADQUARTERS WERE in Midtown, in a glass and steel tower that was somehow both grandiose and anonymous, like a red carpet full of supposed celebrities you’ve never heard of. Robert Richards, the founder and CEO, was holding a press conference that day, and since it was open to the public, Joe decided this was as good a place as any to begin. Dressed like a tourist, in cargo shorts, Yankees cap, sunglasses, and a T-shirt that said “NYC Fuhgeddaboutit,” and with a camera slung around his neck, he passed through a metal detector, then entered the building’s giant atrium, where chairs and a small stage had been set up. The floor was of the same textured stone as the walls, which soared above them. Beyond a row of desks, elevators and escalators rose. There were cameras, lights, and a fair-sized crowd comprising bored reporters, enthusiastic employees, and a mix of people interested in politics and business and those just looking for an air-conditioned place to sit and eat lunch. Joe took a seat in back.
On his chair, on every chair, was a brochure with a picture of Bob Richards climbing aboard a helicopter much like the one Joe had shot down. He was giving the camera a thumbs-up, his coiffure suspiciously blond and still in the wind. It also contained a bio—Harvard business school, investment banks and hedge funds, then NSA for fifteen years—before he branched out into the war-biz to build an empire of his own. The following pages showed Wildwater’s vast operations around the world, though the office in Kandahar was overlooked. Then music played over the loudspeakers, a screen lowered over the back of the stage, and they ran a short movie that showed everything Joe had just read in the brochure. Next the host was introduced, a shill who would ply Richards with planned questions, and Joe didn’t bother to catch his name. He introduced Richards, giving a more personal, warm version of the same bio yet again. By the time the great man stepped on stage, Joe was ready to nod off from boredom. It was about five minutes into the “conversation” that his ears finally perked up.
“Look, government has its function but that is being redefined in our time. You want a package to get there quick? Do you mail it? No way. You send it via FedEx or UPS. Funny things is, in their own way, these are paramilitary-style operations, with their attitude toward logistics and chain-of-command. They learned from the military. If you want technological innovation, do you go to the government or to Apple? If you want to buy something and get it on time at the best price? Amazon. Again and again, in every sector, we’ve proven that professionals are the way to go. Medicine. Communications. Even space exploration. Everything except the most important thing. Security.”
“Well that’s an interesting point, Bob,” the interviewer opined, lamely trying to come off as if he hadn’t heard it yet. “But can you explain just what you mean?”
“It’s simple, Jim. Today we have a vast, bloated, inefficient military, with politicians at the top, who are amateurs after all, career bureaucrats in the middle management, and volunteer soldiers on the front lines. Now, no one honors those troops more than I do.”
“Of course, Bob. One hundred percent.”
“But do we really want our sons—and increasingly our daughters—out there? Let me ask you a question, Jim. Would you send your kids off to catch a burglar or put out a fire in the neighborhood?”
“No way, Bob. That’s crazy. I’d call the police. Or the fire department.”
“Exactly, Jim. That makes good common sense. Call the professionals. Well all I’m saying is, it’s time for us to leave war to the professionals. By outsourcing operations to an organization like Wildwater, our nation will be safer, while also saving lives and money long-term.”
“Sounds great to me, Bob? What do you folks think?”
The front half of the audience, full of employees who’d been shepherded down from the offices upstairs, cheered on cue. The rest clapped half-heartedly. A few continued eating sandwiches and looking at their phones. As reporters started calling out questions, the less-invested audience members began to disperse, and Joe stood as well. He wandered the lobby, taking photos: there was no reason to hide it here, though he was more interested in the security cameras and elevator banks than most tourists.
The press conference ended and there was applause, though less than at the opening, as people were eager to make their way out, and Joe joined the flow, chewing gum and following the line to the revolving doors. That’s when he found Yelena.
She too was in disguise, and, considering how hard it had been for him to spot her ponytail among the others, she’d done an excellent job of camouflage. She wore an oversized pink sweatshirt that said PINK on it (which he thought was just naming the color until she explained it was a brand), black running shorts, pink running shoes, gigantic dark sunglasses, and a black wig under a Mets cap. They’d arrived separately, and had agreed to rendezvous in the park, so he just walked by without a second glance. Then he got her text: Saw someone. Following. Tell you later.
Upstairs, in the executive conference room, Mike Powell sat staring at a row of screens.
As a career government employee, he wasn’t sure how he felt about Richards’s speech as it played on one, but he was certainly impressed with the technology deployed on the others, particularly the facial recognition software.
“Freeze four,” he told the tech, who hit a key. “Close in on that guy, the one in the ball cap. No, the other one in the other ball cap. There . . .” he turned to Jensen, Richards’s right hand, who was overseeing operations from here while the boss was on stage. “That’s Joe Brody.”
“Track him,” Jensen told the tech, and the camera zoomed in tight, following Brody as he took photos of the building. Jensen turned to Powell. “I take it he’s not an architecture buff.”
“Nope. He’s casing the joint.” He watched as Brody, smiling innocuously, flowed with the crowd, through the revolving door, out of the building and off camera.
The door opened and Richards came in, without his sidekick and media handlers, but still with makeup on his face. Jensen jumped up.
“Terrific job, sir.”
“Thanks. Damn those hot lights.” He grabbed a water from the table and sat in the biggest, best seat at the table. “I think it went well. Crowd could have been bigger but Fox and CNN both said they’d cover it. The Times asked a question. What did you think?” he asked Powell.
“About the Times, I have no opinion. But I am interested in why Brody was there.” He pointed at the frozen image of Joe on the screen. “This means he’s connected Zahir to Wildwater.”
“Because of the office? There was no evidence there for him to find. It’s a dead end. The question is what led him there in the first place.”
“And what he is looking for here,” Powell told him. “Money? Dope?”
Richards laughed. “Not in this building. We piss test the janitors for Chrissakes.” He finished his water. “Zahir’s business is conducted completely outside of Wildwater. By very capable professionals.”
“Toomey,” Powell said.
“And as we speak he is moving to make that operation more secure, and more profitable, than it has ever been. As for unwanted guests like your friend Brody . . .” He shrugged. “We have a professional to handle that too.”
Vicky, Powell thought, but did not say the name, as if it were a curse word. He just nodded.
“I will retest all our security, sir, but I don’t see us as vulnerable to intrusion,” Jensen said.
“Don’t worry,” Richards said, wiping his forehead with a hankie and taking off a swatch of orange. “We run a tight ship here, Powell. And a clean one.”
“I hope so,” Powell said, still dwelling on Brody in his getup. “Just remember, Joe Brody is a thief first and foremost. So ask yourself, what did he come to steal?”
“Zahir is coming, America. You have been warned.” Donna paused, letting the ominous email sink in. She was in the office of her boss, Tom, reading him a printout while Andy and Janet listened.
“That it?” Tom asked, taking a big bite of his sandwich. It was ham and Swiss on rye, with mustard and a pickle, as Andy and Janet both noted. They were hungry.
“The dots connect,” Donna said.
“What dots?” he asked, mouth full.
“Thanks to Janet’s tests and the info we have from NYPD, we now know that Zahir has moved from smuggling heroin to distribution at the street level. We also know that the funds are flowing back to terror operations overseas. And now we have a threat, their first operation on US soil.”
“Goddamn it, I got mustard on my tie,” Tom said. He grabbed a napkin and wiped while he talked. “You’re right, Donna. It could be terrorists slinging dope in Brooklyn. It could also just be a crew of normal, patriotic All-American heroin dealers who scored some Afghani dope. And that money could be going to terror . . . according to a CIA snitch who promptly disappeared and an old Irish mobster who ended up in a Jersey swamp. You think Zahir did him too?”
“No, sir.”
“Me neither. And as for this threat.” He crumpled his napkin up and tossed it toward the trash. “Add it to my pile. You know how many we get a day?”
“Yes, sir. I read them all. We get a lot.”
“Exactly. Plus there’s what Homeland gets. And the CIA.” He lifted his pickle. “Here’s what I think. So far this still smells local to me. So give it to the locals. Andy, who’s the detective who sent the sample?”
“Fusco.”
“Give it to Fusco. Let him chase the shadow if he wants. Now then, can I finish my lunch?”
On the way out, Andy checked his watch. “So much for chicken and jazz,” he told Donna. “You owe us.”