Authors: James Koeper
Meg did a quick
computer search of the GAO's form files and found exactly what she wanted: a
document request list from a prior GAO audit: cost overruns in construction of
the Seawolf submarine. She copied the list from the network to her computer,
relabeled it, and began marking it to reflect her current assignment:
investigating cost overruns on a new generation armored personnel carrier.
The senior
auditor on the investigation had asked her to "try her hand" at the
request list. "We'll go over it together when you're finished to see what
you missed," he had said
.
See what you
missed?
Meg didn't intend to miss a thing.
The pace of
work over the last week had slowed since Scott had gone on vacation. She still
put in ten hour days, but found time to hit the gym in the mornings and manage
a few nights out with a group of younger GAO accountants, though at seven or
eight years their senior she didn't exactly feel one of the crowd
.
Funny thing was,
Meg didn't mind the long hours all that much. Maybe the challenge of a new
skill to master kept her interest focused, or maybe it was the piecing together
of a puzzle from a financial trail. She had no regrets so far, other than
Dennis Lindsay. Scott had been right about him. A jerk. Condescending with an
undeserved superiority complex. It would have been nice to have had a chance to
work under Nick a bit longer. He seemed
…
well, different. Straight-forward,
kind, a bit shy, obviously talented.
She found
herself starting to blush
.
Over the last
two weeks she'd made a point of visiting some of the coffee shops close to his
apartment. She shook her head, embarrassed at the thought, knowing she'd been
hoping to run into him but refusing to admit it to herself.
Stupid, she
thought. This wasn't a school, and she wasn't a school girl. She shook Nick
from her mind and returned to work.
The phone rang
a few minutes later and Meg reached out absently for the receiver. "Hello,"
she said.
"Meg? It's
Scott."
Scott's voice
came gravely and hoarse; he'd obviously been drinking the night before
—
hardly
shocking. "Hi, Scott. How's your vacation going?"
"Vacation
…
right.
Let's just say I've been keeping pretty busy. I
—
" A knock sounded
over the receiver and Scott paused. "Hold on a second, will you?" he
said, and the line went silent.
Meg could hear
a door open, then unintelligible conversation. "I'm back," Scott
announced, finally. "Just having my morning java redelivered. They gave me
decaf the first time
…
you shouldn't even be able to call that crap
coffee. Do you think we'd have any luck getting the FDA to review that. Fair
labeling law or something."
Meg laughed,
then asked, "Where are you?"
"A hotel,
pretty grimy one if you want to know the truth."
"Sounds
like a pleasant place to spend two weeks."
"Oh, I
haven't limited myself to just
one
grimy hotel room
—
I've been
spreading myself around. In a few minutes, I'm off to the coast. Sort of a tour
of Southern cities, one grimy hotel after another."
Meg set down
her pen and leaned back in her chair. "Wish I were there," she said
sarcastically, then instantly regretted her words, knowing what would come. Scott
didn't disappoint.
"I'd be
happy to fly you down
…
twin grimy beds, of course."
Meg liked
Scott, but her interest didn't extend beyond friendship. She chose her tone
carefully. "Thanks for the offer."
"That
sounds like a no. Oh well, on to more mundane matters in that case. Business. My
secretary told me you called."
"Right. I
finished the draft report for Dennis. The one he asked for: a summary of the
Yünnan Project investigation to date. I wanted to know if I should send it to
him, or hold off until you get back and have a chance to review it."
"Why don't
you hold off," Scott said after a moment. "I happen to know the
report is going to need some updating. Besides, if everything goes well, I'll
be back by the end of the week."
Meg glanced to
her calendar. Scott had scheduled vacation through next Tuesday. "Huh? If
your vacation goes well you're going to cut it
short
?"
"Yeah, well,
vacation might be a bit of a misnomer. Actually it's more of a working
vacation."
"What are
you working on?"
After another
pause, Scott whispered conspiratorially, "I didn't plan to tell anyone,
but
…
I'm busting to tell somebody."
"I'm
somebody. Shoot."
"I've been
looking into something on my own."
Meg waited for
Scott to explain, and when he didn't, said, "job related?"
"Put it
this way: Dennis has his ideas about how thoroughly we investigate the Yünnan
Project subcontracts, and I have mine."
Meg left her
chair. The phone cord was just long enough for her to reach the office door. She
shut it. "Scott, I don't really know how things work around here, but is
that
…
"
Scott finished
her question. "Smart? To ignore direct and unambiguous instructions from your
boss? Probably not. Then again, unless I found something, I didn't intend to
tell Dennis or anyone else what I'd been doing."
"Which
means you have
…
found something I mean?"
"I sure
did," Scott said proudly. "I won't go into specifics now, but get
ready, Meg. When I get back, if everything pans out the way I think, I'm going
to light off some fireworks."
"Have you
told Nick?"
"I just
tried his line, but he's tied up in a meeting."
"I can
pass on a message if you want."
"No. It
can wait until I get back. I'll tell him in person, see his mouth drop open for
myself.
…
Meg, in the meantime, could you keep this conversation our
little secret."
"Great,"
Meg said stiffly. "First you involve me in your little intrigue then you
won't allow me to cover myself." Being blunt with Scott somehow came
easily.
Scott laughed. "You're
disappointing me. I pegged you for an independent streak."
"Accountants
follow set accounting rules and standards
—
it's not exactly the career of
choice for thrill seekers."
"Yeah, job
can suck, can't it. I'll tell you what. Forget I even opened my mouth. It
wasn't fair to say anything. As far as you know, I'm doing the typical vacation
thing: sunscreen, lounge chairs, margaritas. Okay?"
Meg "It's
your funeral."
"Fair
enough. I'll see you in a few days. And you'll see, ol' Scott's not about to
get in any trouble."
Meg heard a
click, and was left holding a dead line.
Nick stopped
for a moment at the entrance. He hated these things.
Everybody in
Washington, it seemed, insisted on throwing a banquet. To raise money for a
candidate, to celebrate a campaign victory, or for a popular charity, it didn't
matter. As long as the women got a chance to hang jewelry around their necks
and men got to compare the size of their wallets, everybody seemed happy. Peacocks,
strutting and showing off, and Nick wanted no part of it.
Of course he
went just the same. Someone called you up
—
a friend, or person you owed a
favor
—
and said they had bought a table at such and such a function, and
what choice did you have? It is for such a good cause, they'd say, and guess
who will be there? Nick never cared, but they were sure to tell him anyway. A
TV anchor, or movie star, always a senator or two.
Tonight's cause
was as good as any, Nick supposed. And more important, the call had come from a
friend in the Office of Special Investigations desperate to fill a table for
ten
.
Nick would make
an appearance, have a drink or two, force down the dry, warmed-over chicken,
laugh a bit too hard at the celebrity speaker, then head home. All in all,
considering it was his first night off work early in over four weeks, he would
have preferred to spend it at home vegged out in front of the TV.
Nick walked
into the hotel ballroom. Two women stationed behind a long table handed him a name
tag. He pinned it to his tux, unconcerned with pin holes
—
the tux was
cheap to begin with, bought a decade earlier when he was poorer and a half-size
smaller. During Nick's first year with the GAO, Scott had dragged him to a
half-dozen of these things in pursuit of daughters of high placed government
officials.
Nick peered
down at the tag, his assigned table number printed in the lower left hand
corner. Twenty-two. He looked over the maze of tables, all empty, the attendees
bunched around the bars ringing the ballroom.
A drink would
help, Nick decided, and headed off for a gin and tonic.
One tour around
the ballroom, drink in hand, brought him to the klatch of GAO employees
—
a
tight circle of eight, most younger than he, who seemed to be enjoying themselves
and their drinks. He joined the circle, and discussion halted abruptly as a
flurry of hands shot toward him, acknowledging his unofficial position as
assistant comptroller.
Talk shifted to
work, as it often did around Nick, and soon he debated proposed GASB rules with
two of the group while the remainder sealed themselves off in a new circle,
relieved, Nick guessed, to have cut him from their number.
Over the crowd
noise Nick heard a name
—
"Meg"
—
called across the floor.
He turned and
spotted her almost immediately: dark blue dress, graceful
.
Meg smiled and waved,
and Nick was about to do the same when he noticed her eyes were directed to his
left, to the group of six standing apart. He lowered his hand self-consciously.
Only when she
drew closer did Meg notice him, and call out his name
.
"Meg, how
are you?"
"Fine."
She started to swerve in his direction but one of the younger accountants
intercepted her and led her away by the elbow. Meg looked back to Nick over her
shoulder and mouthed "sorry," apologetically
.
Meg joined the
group of six, and Nick resumed the discussion of FASB rules, hoping his
embarrassment did not show.
Periodically,
his eyes jumped to Meg's back, to the slim waist and bare shoulders.
He dismissed
any thought of detouring to her side. She was, after all, a co-worker. He'd
seen enough relationships between co-workers go bad, heard the resulting
gossip, saw the lines drawn between opposing camps, witnessed the affect on
people's careers. Not for him.
As if he had
a chance.
He knew himself
well enough to predict the outcome of any conversation: he would have nothing
to say to her, then the talk would necessarily drift to work, and that would be
worse than saying nothing at all
.
Rationalizations,
maybe, but each made perfect sense. Everybody had their element, and his was
work. Issues, logic, reasoning. Accept that, he told himself.
Assistant
comptroller at thirty-five. An important, demanding job, a bright future
—
the
glass was more than half-f.
Nick started
toward the bar for another drink, wishing he had never come.
Scott waited
until the gates had closed and the van had pulled to an empty bay, then slid
the transmission into gear and allowed the car to roll slowly forward for a
better view. The port warehouse was large, square, undistinguished; its windows
high and gated. He counted eight truck bays, three of them full, including the
one the van now occupied.
Scott reached
for the small duffel bag sitting on the passenger's seat beside him and removed
a Nikon automatic camera. He pointed it at the warehouse gate; the attached
200mm lens magnified the weather-beaten sign affixed there. Kiajong Shipping,
it read. He snapped a photo.
Panning with
the lens, he snapped a shot of the van and the camera whirred loudly
—
the
automatic rewind
—
signifying the end of the roll. He extracted the film
and set it in the duffel with the other three rolls he had shot earlier in the
day. Then he loaded in a fresh roll and took another series of shots, of the
van, the workers, and the other trucks in the lot
.
His hands shook
with excitement. The search of Andrew McKenzie's apartment had yielded much
more than he ever dreamed: a computer disk that had lead him from Birmingham,
to Raleigh, and finally here to Norfolk. By tomorrow he would be back in D.C.
with an incredible story and evidence to back it up
.
He couldn't
wait to see the look on Nick's face
.
Scott looked
again at the warehouse. A series of piers jutted from its rear, each crowned by
a massive crane for loading and unloading freight. One ship lay in dock. Scott
pointed the camera at the ship's masts. A flag flew there, but he couldn't make
it out. The same with the name of the vessel
—
he couldn't quite read the
white lettering on the hull.
If he could get
closer, just another couple of hundred yards
—
A cyclone fence
circled the warehouse lot sixty yards or so from him. No more than seven feet
high, free of barbed wire. Easy enough to jump.
Tugging at his
chin, both excited and nervous, Scott monitored the warehouse lot, camera
ready. Within a quarter hour the van left, and he fired off another half-dozen
shots as it passed. The last two trucks followed shortly after, and then all
activity in the lot died. Scott checked his watch: 6:32 p.m. He set the car
radio to a rock channel and waited
.
By seven not a
truck had entered the warehouse lot; he hadn't seen a soul
.
Scott exited
the car, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder with a camera inside. He made his
way to the cyclone fence, nerves on edge but feeling very alive. Maybe it was
time to leave the GAO. He was still young enough to sign up with the FBI or the
ATF. Police work was in his blood, there was no way around it
.
Climbing the
fence proved easy, but Scott went over its top less than gracefully. He hit the
ground hard and fell to his side; simultaneously metal tinkled against asphalt.
He jumped quickly to his feet. His hand went to his pocket
—
empty
—
and
he scanned the ground unsuccessfully for his car keys and motel key
.
A nervous
glance to the warehouse showed all remained still, no one had heard him.
Glints of
silver caught Scott's eye, a scrap of metal, a screw, and there, against the
fence, his car keys. He scooped them up and ran for cover behind the nearest
tractor trailer. The lost motel key did not concern him
—
it was easily
replaceable.
From around the
trailer's corner, he looked to the ship, and instantly realized his mistake. In
the car he had been elevated, parked on a slight hill overlooking the
warehouse. From where he now stood, the warehouse obscured the ship entirely.
Scott had come
this far, and didn't hesitate. A quick sprint brought him to the warehouse
itself. He would circle it to get his photos.
Adrenaline
coursed his bloodstream; he felt high, exhilarated.
The side of the
warehouse served as a convenient dump. Old tires, twisted bits of metal, odd
lengths of pipe and coils of cable lined the narrow passage between warehouse
and fence. The only windows were ten feet or more overhead. Scott moved
carefully but confidently to the far side of the building.
As he neared
the edge of the warehouse he heard voices, a number of them, speaking an Asian
tongue
—
Chinese, he thought. A stack of pallets marked the warehouse's
corner; he took cover behind it, risking only a quick glance around the stack
to identify the voices' source: a group of dock workers another fifteen yards
father on, their backs to him, resting on crates with lunch boxes to their
sides. He also saw the ship, an unobstructed view.
Scott unslung
the duffel bag, removed the Nikon and directed it at the ship. The name first,
the
Shansi
, and then the flag. A cluster of five yellow stars marked the
upper left hand corner of the red flag, one larger than the others. The flag of
the People's Republic of China.
His finger
hesitated over the shutter button.
How loud was
the camera's shutter? Loud enough to alert the men to his presence?
He wiped the
back of his hand quickly across his forehead. How well could the dockworkers
hear, fifteen yards distant, with their talking and the sound of forklifts in
the distance? Not much, he decided.
Scott offered a
quick prayer, then pushed the shutter button. The shutter fired with a soft
click, no dockhand turned
.
Confident now,
Scott snapped another photo of the flag. Just a photo of the ship name, and he
would be done.
He framed the
name, then pushed the shutter button, only to be greeted by a whirring noise.
The automatic
rewind
—dammit—
impossibly loud, it seemed.
A dockworker
turned, caught Scott's eye a fraction of a second before Scott managed to duck
behind the pallets.
Scott didn't wait to see what the man's reaction might be. He ran. Six
strides, and a coil of wire caught his left ankle and left him sprawling. Before
he could regain his feet, both of his arms were pinioned behind his back, then
a face filled his vision, screaming loudly in a language he could not
understand.
Scott scanned
his surroundings: the hold of the
Shansi
, cramped with crates, and dark,
lit only dimly with safety lamps protected by heavy gauge wire. He inhaled and
tasted a mustiness born of oil, rust and sweat
.
Eight men
surrounded the wooden crate on which he sat, all Asian, most a full head
shorter than he but all lean and fit, some in stained T-shirts, others in khaki
work shirts with the arms cut off.
They had given
up screaming at him, finally, and seemed to be waiting for something or
someone. In a moment Scott saw who
.
A man dressed
in white pants and a black silk shirt approached. Asian. Large, nearing six
feet, with a wrestler's upper body and torso. Scott tried, but could not read
the dark eyes set in the broad flat face. A dangerous face, all the more so
because he carried a three foot length of steel bar.
One of the
dockworkers bowed and said, "Pu-Yi." Scott made note of the name
.
The man, Pu-Yi,
stopped in front of Scott, looked him up and down with distaste. "What are
you doing here?" Pu-Yi snapped in heavily accented English.
Scott rose from
the wooden crate. "Nothing," he said, adopting an indignant tone. "I
was just out for a walk."
Pu-Yi pushed
Scott back onto the crate. "This is private property."
"I didn't
know that."
"There is
a fence, all around the yard."
Scott conceded
as much with a nod. "Look, I'm sorry about that. I jumped the fence. I
just wanted to get a good view of the ship in port. I'm nuts about ships. A
hobby of mine. I didn't think anybody would mind if I took a look." He
tried his most endearing smile, but Pu-Yi continued to scowl.
Pu-Yi pointed
to the camera in Scott's right hand. "You have a camera?"
"Like I
said, I'm nuts about ships. It's a hobby of mine to take photos of them."
With his palm
up, Pu-Yi scratched his index fingers in the air, a clear order to hand over
the camera. Scott did
.
Pu-Yi examined
the camera quickly, then pointed to the small duffel bag slung over Scott's
shoulders. "What do you have in the bag?"
"Just a
few personal things."
Pu-Yi reached
for the bag, and again Scott chose not to object. Pu-Yi unzipped it, rummaged
inside. His hand came out holding three rolls of spent film. He held them up to
Scott's face accusingly.
"Some of
those have been in there for
…
I don't know
…
weeks I think,"
Scott lied. "I just haven't got around to getting them developed."
Pu-Yi placed
the three rolls in his pants pocket, then studied Scott's face intently. "You
ran."
Scott nodded,
trying to appear embarrassed. "Hey, no one ever accused me of being smart.
I reacted without thinking. I guess I knew I shouldn't really have jumped the
fence, so, yes, I ran."
One of the
dockworkers to the side of Pu-Yi said something in Chinese. A short
conversation between the two followed, the dockworker pointing at Scott
repeatedly.
Scott waited
until they had finished before speaking again. "Hey, look it, I apologize.
Really. I've learned my lesson, and I'll never do it again. Okay? Now, I really
have to get going or I'll miss an appointment."
Scott rose
again, then began to walk confidently toward the one called Pu-Yi and the wall
of men to each side of him.
Keep your head high, your eyes unblinking, and
the wall of men would part.
He'd go over the fence, get back in his car,
and head back to D.C. Just another scrape he would extract himself from with a
little charm, a little self-deprecating humor, and a bit of cool. That easy.
Pu-Yi turned
his back as if to make way. The beginnings of a smile showed on Scott's face,
then froze there as his eyes went round. Pu-Yi continued to spin, and when he
again faced Scott, the steel bar, held like a bat, led his body
.
Scott had no
time to react. He took the blow in the chest, at the sternum, and dropped
immediately to the ground in a fetal position, hands clutched in fists and
folded over his heart.
He tried to
suck in air, but none would come. His eyes bulged, and only with great effort
did he eventually manage a series of quick and shallow gasps.
"You think
we are idiots?" Pu-Yi rasped.
Above him, the
dockworkers had closed. A flurry of Chinese followed that Scott barely heard as
he focused on regaining control of his lungs
.
At last the
muscles constricting his chest loosened. His lungs filled deeply, though the
sharp pain localized about his sternum remained. He stayed on the ground,
breathing labored, as one of the dockworkers bent and reached for his wallet. The
dockworker extracted it from Scott's back pocket and handed it to Pu-Yi.
Another flurry
of Chinese followed, then Pu-Yi walked away leaving Scott on the floor,
surrounded.
Scott struggled
to all fours, then to his knees
.
God, that
hurt.
He looked up,
at the dockworkers; blank faces stared back.
Keep your
head high, your eyes unblinking, and the wall would part?
Hell of an idea,
Scott. One hell of an idea.
For the first
time fear tinged his thinking, but he did his best to banish it.
Nothing to
worry about, Scott. You just misjudged the situation.
New plan: sit tight,
don't make a sound unless spoken to. They were probably holding him for the
police, and willing to use force to ensure he remained. Fine. The police would
come, they'd take him away, and as soon as he was safely in the squad car he'd
tell them who he was and what he was doing there. At most he was looking at a
trespassing charge
.
You wanted field
work, Scott, well here is the baggage. At least he'd have a good story to tell
around the GAO, and a nasty bruise, perhaps a cracked rib, to prove it.
Suddenly a day
spent reviewing financials seemed refreshingly boring.
After a few
minutes the circle of dockworkers parted again; Pu-Yi had returned. He squatted
next to Scott. "You will tell me the truth now."
"There was
no reason to hit me."
"What are
you doing here," Pu-Yi barked, ignoring Scott's complaint.
What the
hell was this?
This was America, where people had rights. "I told you
already," Scott replied angrily.
Pu-Yi slapped
Scott across the face, hard.
Scott ran his
tongue over his lips, tasting blood. "I just wanted to look at the
ships," he said desperately.
Pu-Yi spit at
Scott's feet, then stood and reached out his hand. One of the dockworkers
handed him a handkerchief. For a moment Scott thought Pu-Yi intended to offer
help, then Scott noticed there was something within the handkerchief, and an
alarm sounded in his head.
Pu-Yi unwrapped
a blue-steel handgun. He gripped it, and held it pointed to the sky as he
circled Scott. "You wanted to look at ships?" he said.
"Yes,"
Scott said, his voice breaking.
"You are
lying."
"
No.
"
Behind Scott
now, Pu-Yi raised his eyes slowly, to a pair of dockworkers, and nodded. The
dockworkers leaned over Scott and grabbed his right arm by the wrist. They then
pressed Scott's right hand flat against the top of a wooden crate
.
Pu-Yi bent from
the waist and rammed the handgun's barrel against the index finger of Scott's
right hand, just above the first knuckle. Scott tried to jerk his hand back,
but the dockworkers held it firmly planted in place
.