“I
t’s him,” Danny said. “It’s the driver. Esteban.” Hot prickles of sweat broke out on his forehead, on the back of his neck. Hot acid burned his gullet, and he felt queasy, as if he might vomit. “Where did you find the . . .”
“The body was found in an alley behind a bar in Brighton. Covered by a plastic drop cloth. It was obviously a drug-related execution, and it looks like he was tortured, so the Boston Police drug unit caught it.”
Danny lurched from the booth, clattering his fork to the floor, and rushed outside, where he threw up on the sidewalk. A young couple carrying matching Under Armour gym bags were passing by at that moment. The guy shoved his girlfriend away from the trajectory of the vomit.
Danny remained bent over for a minute or so, head ducked, the world spinning and wobbling.
The photos depicted a work of sculpture made by Satan. An arrangement—a derangement—of a human body in parts. The man in the photo, though it was but a torso, was holding his own severed head, as if he were clutching a soccer ball. The head looked like Esteban’s head, but it also looked like one of those hyper-real latex Halloween masks, except for the horrific bloody innards of his neck and trachea that hung down raggedly, a torrent of dark blood.
The eyes were open slightly, as if he were falling asleep.
Stuffed into the head’s mouth, like discarded gristle on a butcher’s counter, was what appeared to be his own dismembered penis.
• • •
Danny returned unsteadily to the diner and stood at the booth.
“Was he one of yours?”
Yeager’s eyes widened. He glanced to either side. “Sit down, please.”
The booths on both sides of them were still empty. Danny slid into the booth, slowly and reluctantly.
Slocum said, “You really think if we’d turned Galvin’s driver, we’d be wasting our time with you?”
“Don’t shed a tear for Esteban,” Yeager said. “He was a low-level
sicario
for the cartel.”
“Meaning?”
“Enforcer. Hired gun.”
“Well, that could easily have been me.”
“It wasn’t,” Yeager said.
“Who did it?” Danny asked.
“The cartels have cells scattered around the country,” Yeager said. “There’s no shortage of muscle. We put out a BOLO and this report of a body came back. And checked out.”
“Isn’t this just going to lead back to Galvin?” Danny said. “As soon as the body’s identified. I mean, the driver to some rich investor is found tortured and murdered—”
“The body won’t be identified,” Yeager said. “Their security people will do their tricks with ID cards and fake passports. This guy here”—he tapped a pudgy forefinger on one of the glossies—“is a John Doe.”
Danny nodded, bit his lower lip. “Well, I’m out.”
Slocum made a slight movement, as if he were about to say something threatening, but Yeager put a hand on Slocum’s arm.
“This is not going to happen to you.”
Danny laughed bitterly. “Oh, right, of course not. How could I possibly think that?”
“If anything, this guy’s death is your protection. You’re off the hook.”
“But you guys have made it clear I’m still very much on the hook. You think you can keep pushing and pushing me until I’m found in pieces, rolled up in plastic somewhere?” He shook his head. “Uh-uh. I’m not meeting with Galvin again. That relationship is over.”
“Just like that?” Slocum said. “Suddenly you’re gonna cut off all contact? You don’t think
that’s
going to look suspicious? They find a transmitter, they finger the driver, and suddenly you’ve disappeared? They’ll
know
they got the wrong guy. You’ll just turn the klieg lights on yourself, buddy.”
Danny smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, no, it won’t be anything that obvious. I’ll be sick for a while. Then I’ll be way behind on a deadline, and I’ll make excuses. After a couple of months, he’ll give up. Relationship’s over. That’s all it takes.”
“And your daughter?” Yeager asked.
Anger flared up in him suddenly, a lighted match tossed into gasoline. Calmly, he replied, “My daughter has no idea what’s going on. Her relationship with Galvin’s daughter is innocent, and no one’s going to think different.”
Their waitress swooped in. “He’s the only one eating today? You boys aren’t hungry?”
Danny shook his head.
“I’d love the workingman’s special,” Slocum said.
“I’m sorry, honey, that’s only available till nine. Something else?”
“Then I think that crème brûlée French toast has my name on it.”
The waitress beamed.
“Danny,” Yeager said when she had left. “Who else do you think is going to protect you and your daughter?”
Danny felt his cheeks go hot. “What kind of protection are you talking about? Like those murderers are going to give you advance warning?”
“It’s highly unusual for them to target the DEA. They don’t want to go there.”
“But they do, don’t they? I’ve read about—”
“It has happened,” Yeager admitted. “But it’s rare, and the Sinaloa boys, well, they may be brutal, but they’re also smart enough to know not to take out DEA agents. They do, they’re in a world of shit.”
Danny stared at him with incredulity. “They thought Esteban was working for you guys.”
Yeager said calmly, “They executed the driver because he was a Mexican, Daniel. They thought one of their countrymen was a traitor, so they had to send a message. But they hardly ever do that sort of thing to us or to our people.”
“So what happens if I’m caught next time? How are you going to protect me then?”
“We’ll get you out of there. You and your daughter.”
“Like, the witness protection program?”
Yeager nodded once.
“You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to live that way. I’m not going to ruin my daughter’s life.”
“That’s the worst-case scenario, Daniel. It’s not going to happen.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
Yeager and Slocum were both looking at him now, but neither said a word.
“Right,” Danny said. “Look, I’m the only parent my daughter has. I’m not going to orphan her, you understand? You want to prosecute me for money laundering or whatever bullshit crime you come up with, go for it. Have at it. The fact that your little device got discovered, that’s not on me. That’s your screwup. I did exactly what you asked me to do. I acted in good faith. I cooperated.”
“Exactly,” Slocum said. “You cooperated.”
“Uh-huh. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t realize the position you’re in, do you?” Slocum said. “You don’t seem to get what we have on you, Danny boy.”
“What you
have
on me . . . ?”
“You’re not pulling out now, my friend,” Slocum said. “Like the bank says, ‘substantial penalty for early withdrawal.’”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“Sometimes the DEA leaks,” Slocum said. He took a long swallow of coffee. “I really hope that doesn’t happen in your case.”
And suddenly Danny understood what kind of position he was in. They would rather tip the Sinaloa cartel off that he was a DEA informant than let him get away.
He stood up.
“Daniel, please,” Yeager said.
Slocum put down his coffee cup. He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out two crisp new hundred-dollar bills. “Here,” he said. “Take Galvin up on that squash game. And buy yourself a decent squash racquet.”
T
he executive conference room of Harmonics Global, Inc., looked like a thousand other executive conference rooms in corporations around the world. Since the headquarters of Harmonics Global was located in San Diego, though, it had a kind of California feel. There was blond wood and large windows, a lot of glass and steel and copious light. A large Cisco TelePresence screen took up most of one wall. On the opposite end was a projection screen that retracted with a touch of a button. Twenty high-backed leather chairs ringed a gleaming elongated oval table made from African mahogany with purpleheart border inlay.
Harmonics Global was a large private portfolio company whose holdings included fourteen separate companies, ranging from auto parts to contract food services to insurance to freight.
Very few people knew who really owned Harmonics Global.
At the head of the table sat the CEO of Harmonics, a formidable woman named Laurie Hornbeck. Laurie knew that most people didn’t consider her a warm person. She was often called no-nonsense. Her division chiefs were afraid of her. Her blond hair was cut in a short, efficient bob that her detractors called mannish. She wore one of her habitual brightly colored suits over a white silk shell. Today’s color was sapphire blue. The only jewelry she wore was gold stud earrings and an onyx choker.
But Laurie Hornbeck was not running the meeting. That was the job of the chief financial officer, Allen Hartley, because the agenda this morning was the budget. It didn’t help that Hartley spoke in a monotone. His presentation, Laurie thought, was verbal chloroform. He talked about “optimized distribution networks” and “improved supply chain visibility.” He talked about an “end-to-end ROI-driven solution.” He talked about “deliverables” and “dollarizing” approaches and taking a “deep dive” into the data. Al Hartley droned as he went through his charts and graphs, and the directors of each division took notes on their laptops, and Laurie Hornbeck furtively checked her BlackBerry.
The rule at the monthly budget meeting was that all participants had to switch off their cell phones. Laurie Hornbeck, being the CEO, was exempt.
About halfway through the meeting, Laurie’s BlackBerry buzzed. She put on reading glasses and looked down at the text message that appeared. She cleared her throat and looked up. “Tony, Karen, Barry—in my office right now, please. My apologies, Al. I need fifteen minutes.”
She rose from the table.
• • •
Laurie Hornbeck’s office was flooded with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific. Her office was as efficient and as spare as her hairstyle. Her desktop was empty except for a few photos of her son, her laptop, and two phones, one of them secure. A clean desk meant an orderly mind. In one corner of the room was her bag of golf clubs. On the walls hung several paintings of Taos, New Mexico, by Helmuth Naumer, vivid pastels of pueblos and canyons. Laurie was from New Mexico and kept a vacation house in Taos and got back there whenever she could.
She kept her face calm, because a good leader must stay calm and confident. But she was acutely aware of the acid splashing the back of her throat. Of how violently her heart was pounding. This whole nightmarish development was all she’d been able to think about for days.
Two weeks chilling in Belize, she thought glumly. And now, back in the office just a few days, it was as if she’d never gone.
“It’s Omaha. We’ve sprung a leak,” she said. She kept her expression neutral, but she fidgeted with her onyx choker.
“What do you mean, a leak?” said a thin, dark-haired woman with a mournful look. She was the controller of Omaha Logistics, one of Harmonics Global’s top holdings. It provided freight-forwarding services to an array of corporate clients, transporting truckload freight in containers and trailers by land, sea, and air.
To almost everyone outside this room—occupied by the top three officers of Omaha Logistics—it looked like a legitimate company.
“One of our cargo jets was seized yesterday in Fresno.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Omaha’s chief operating officer, a pasty-faced, chipmunk-cheeked man with a potbelly. “Fully loaded?”
Laurie nodded. “Then yesterday a banker in the San Francisco office of Pacific Commerce Bank disappeared.”
“Mother of God,” the controller said quietly, her face growing ever more mournful. “It’s Toth.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” asked the chipmunk-cheeked COO.
“He didn’t show up for work,” Laurie said. “He’s not at home. We pinged him and he hasn’t replied.”
“Do you think he’s in the wind?” asked Omaha’s chief financial officer, a handsome Latino-looking man with a light brown complexion and thick black hair combed straight back.
“Look, maybe he’ll turn up on a beach in Playa del Carmen with a nose bag full of coke and a bevy of barely legal hookers. But I doubt it. That’s not his speed.”
“But do we have any reason to believe he’s been arrested?” the Latino CFO asked with alarm.
Laurie shrugged. “We sure as hell better hope not. I don’t even want to think about that possibility. Because if he has . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her stomach roiled with acid. She needed a Tums. Lately she’d been chewing them like candy.
A breach, a leak—that was the nightmare scenario they all dreaded. If the truth were ever to come out about Omaha, they’d all go to prison.
Or—given who their true employers were—worse.
“We have to find the banker at once,” the CFO said. “Before he spills anything.” In times of stress like this, his Mexican accent became more prominent.
“Obviously,” said Laurie. “But by far the more important matter is the leak. We need to find out where it’s coming from. Or who it’s coming from. And then it has to be plugged. By whatever means necessary.”
“Toth has to be found and prevented from talking,” the controller said, her voice rising sharply. “Can we get to him? Stop him?”
Laurie looked at Omaha’s CFO but said nothing. She wanted this to come from him.
He picked up on her cue. “If we act right away, we can contain the damage. We have a contractor.”
The other three corporate officers fell silent. The chipmunk-cheeked COO shifted in his chair.
“This can’t be traced back to us,” the controller said.
“Obviously,” the CFO said. “He is reliable and discreet. This is a job that requires a great deal of finesse. He is in fact a surgeon.”
“Are we all in agreement?” Laurie asked.
Everyone but the CFO seemed to be avoiding her eyes.
“This is not going forward unless we’re unanimous,” she said. She waited. A course of action as fraught with danger as this, she wanted everyone’s sign-off.
“Yes,” said the controller at last.
“All right,” said the COO.
Laurie Hornbeck turned to the CFO. “Then make the call,” she said.