Ben was just getting off the fire stairs up from fifty when a stocky man entered Treadwell’s office just down the corridor. Other than that man, the corridor was as empty and as hushed as a church on a Monday afternoon.
He went down to the CEO’s office, where the man was waiting for him.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave this building at once, Mr. Whalen,” Hardy said.
Treadwell was behind his desk watching them, and Ben met his eyes and nodded.
He turned back to the stocky man. “Or what?”
“I’ll have you arrested.”
“Didn’t work the first time, and I just have one question for your boss.”
Hardy reached for Ben’s arm.
“I would advise you not to touch me,” Ben said quietly, not moving away.
Hardy stepped back. “Ashley, please call the police department, tell him that we have a situation here.”
“That won’t be necessary, Ash,” Treadwell said from his office door. “Please come in, Mr. Whalen. And Butch, if you’ll just wait outside here for a minute, you can escort the gentleman out of the building.”
He stepped aside, and Ben went in after him.
Treadwell didn’t return to his desk. “Now, as I understand it, you’re close to one of our employees, Ms. Cassy Levin, and you believe that she’s missing.”
“She’s been kidnapped by a Russian or Russians and has been taken somewhere in Brighton Beach.”
Treadwell didn’t react. “I’m told that she hasn’t come back from lunch, but if you think, for whatever reason, that a crime has been committed against her, then I suggest you inform the police.”
Ben smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Treadwell, you’ve told me everything I needed to know.” He started to turn away but then turned back. “I will find her and deal with her kidnappers. Then I will come back here with the flash drive she recorded, and we’ll have this discussion again. And perhaps for your safety you might want to have a police presence. I’m sure they’ll have a few questions of their own.”
Chip was on his laptop when Ben got back to the car. He looked up, grinning. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“I’m all ears,” Ben said.
“There’s a central automated switchboard and recording system in the building. I trolled the numbers for Reid Treadwell, the CEO, and for Butch Hardy, the chief of security.”
“I just met them both.”
“Treadwell is in a dispute with a woman by the name of Betty Ladd. Turns out she’s the president of the New York Stock Exchange, and she’s accusing Treadwell of some sort of stock manipulation or financial hanky-panky. But I got really lucky with Hardy. He made one phone call to someone named Dugan, who was definitely a Russian or maybe Eastern European. Anyway, Hardy broke off the call almost immediately.”
“But?”
“I think he made a mistake by using his office phone to call this guy. I think he probably switched to his cell phone.”
“And?”
“I’m accessing NSA’s data retrieval base, phone calls in the last twenty-four hours between U.S. cell phones to people with Russian accents inside the country. We might get lucky.”
“How long?”
“Minutes, hours, days,” Chip said. “Anyway, my machine is chewing on it. In the meantime, let’s try the morgue, and on the way you can assure me that you didn’t shoot anyone yet.”