78

 

THE SECURITIES AND EXCHANGE COMMISSION, NYC, MONDAY MORNING

Troy Bergers liked Mondays. He loved his weekends, rich with sport, food, and sex, but when they were over he was more than ready for the battle of the week. This particular Monday would go down as one of his all-time favorites.

He’d only been in the office three minutes, his takeout cappuccino was still hot, when the phone rang. Andrew Canning himself, the head honcho at Counterterrorism Center on the line. Bergers gripped the receiver hard. Canning had news and a request; an order, effectively. Bergers was more than happy to accede.

“I’ll get my people onto it as of now. Keep me in the loop,” Bergers said, listening in for a few more moments of mutual pleasantries, before thudding the phone back into its cradle.

He hit his intercom. “Bret! Get Wilks and Rac in here, would ya?”

Wilkie and Rodgers appeared within the minute. Rac, noted Bergers, looked darker-eyed than ever. Wilkie glowed like the star in an ad for middle-aged vitamin supplements.

“Sit,” instructed Bergers. He stayed behind his cluttered desk, wearing his best poker face.

He watched them sit, waited a long moment, ratcheting up their interest, ever the showman.

“We got something big here. We got something nasty here,” he intoned, leaning forward, head lowered like a bull about to charge.

“And this is good?” asked Wilkie, head tilted, one eyebrow elegantly raised.

Bergers sat back. “Very good for us. Very bad for Ronald Glass.”

He cracked a smile, benevolent father to favored child.

“I happened to overhear you saying, Ange, that you would like to listen in to Ronnie’s cell phone, and to his home.”

“Yeah, well, a girl can dream.”

Bergers’ smile grew even bigger. “Sometimes dreams come true.”

“We can listen in?” asked Ange, springing to her feet.

Bergers nodded. “Home. Cell phone.”

“How?” asked Rodgers, suddenly wide awake.

“I think it was you, Ange, who said that it would take evidence of terrorist activity to get approval to listen in to his cell phone and his home. You even added that the Counterterrorism Center would be able to get approval and access,” mused Bergers.

“I did,” replied Wilkie, not quite believing where this seemed to be going.

“You must be psychic.”

Wilkie laughed. “Oh I am. You’re giving me a pay raise tomorrow!”

Bergers belted out a laugh. “Maybe I just will.”

“Guys! Put me outta my misery here!” cried Rac, raising his palms in the air. “What the hell’s going on?”

“CTC just rang!” declared Bergers. “Andrew Canning, no less. They connected two pieces of your intel. One of the buyers of the puts on California real estate casualty property companies happens to be none other than our Ronald Glass.”

Ange shouted, “Whaat?”

Rac blinked rapidly. “Well, I’ll be…”

Bergers grinned. “My reaction too. Dirty Ronnie was using nominee companies and all that shit, but CTC would appear to have just blown through those walls like a house fire. You should know that Canning told me there are other buyers of the puts too, but the identity of that buyer or buyers they don’t know or aren’t sharing.”

Ange stared at Bergers, mouth open in amazement.

“And get this,” continued Bergers, fisting his hands, drumming them on the table. “What is evident is that the buyers of these puts are suspected of being involved, directly, or possibly unwittingly, in potential terrorist activity. CTC’s already got a FISA warrant out on Ronnie, enabling them to get access to all his comms; all his electronic intel; audio, text, and e-mail. The whole friggin’ lot!” he exclaimed, raising his meaty arms in a triumphal salute.

Ange let out a whistle. “Pay dirt!”

Bergers nodded. “Damn right! Guys, your contact at CTC is Moira Zucker; I believe you’ve already spoke with her, Ange. Zucker’ll copy you both in on all the intercepts.”

Ange and Rac exchanged a look: thrill, determination, delighted shock.

“For our part,” Bergers continued, more soberly, “we have been asked real nicely by the CTC guys to keep digging, to find out what the hell is going on. And to help interpret the intel that comes down.”

“Christmas and birthday all at once,” said Rodgers, beaming.

“Freakin’ miracle!” exclaimed Wilkie, beaming back. “Oh Ronnie, what the hell have you gotten into?”

“That’s the question, ain’t it?” retorted Bergers.

“Doesn’t seem like a terrorist to me,” mused Wilkie.

“All the more dangerous, then,” noted Rac.

“Maybe he’s the bag man?” suggested Wilkie.

“That’s what CTC wants to figure, like yesterday,” replied Bergers.

“Did you pass on my contact’s thoughts about why someone would buy California casualty prop puts?” asked Wilkie.

“Because of the earthquake or this fabled ARk Storm?” asked Bergers. He shook his head. “Too far fetched.”

“Can we afford to make that call?” pushed Wilkie.

Bergers stopped grinning. “I’ll think about it. Keep digging.”

“Until I hit China,” promised Wilkie, striding from the office. “Ronald Glass, you are going down!”