Authors: Kathy Disanto
So did the neighbors, evidently.
“That level of security does seem
like overkill,” I offered.
“There you go! Why, nobody has ever
seen
his house, much less visited. They say he designed the place
himself, brought in laborers from somewhere down in South America to build it, then
shipped the hired help back where they came from. At least, that’s the story.
You ask me, those poor souls are buried in a gully out there.” The tablet in
her hand chimed softly, drawing her attention to the readout. “Your order’s
up. Just as well. I don’t need to be preachin’ from my soapbox when I’ve got
a house full of hungry customers. I’ll be right back with your biscuits.”
As she bustled off toward the
kitchen, I looked at Dennis. “Care to bet she’s wrong about those construction
workers?”
“Not a chance.”
Change a Life’s headquarters
building was an accordion of triangles stacked one behind the other, stark
white points piercing a sky blue enough to break your heart. The glassed-in front
soared ten stories, the slightly narrower section behind it nine, the next
eight and so on, until the structure tapered to a slender waist four stories
high. From there it gradually broadened again, stair-stepping back up to eight
stories. The cornucopia metaphor was impossible to miss. Especially with oversized
marble gourds, nine-foot concrete ears of corn, enormous bunches of plump stone
grapes, and giant bronze apples littering the broad flagstone courtyard like so
much overflow from Conover’s horn of plenty. An immaculately manicured lawn shaded
by crepe myrtle and live oak rolled down to the edge of Lady Bird Lake.
Automatic doors slid silently open
as we approached, ushering us into a football field-sized lobby floored in
gleaming black granite. Plush, royal blue area rugs framed cozy conversational
groups made up of black coffee tables tucked in rainbow arcs of colorful wrap-around
chairs. Over against the right-hand wall, brass benches with black-leather
seats stitched a broken line between eight-foot potted ficuses.
A soft
bong
to our left drew our
gazes to a bank of elevators. One of the doors slid up, revealing a gangly,
fresh-faced, jeans-clad twenty-something with a shaved head and skin like ebony.
He bounded out of the elevator and across the lobby toward the closest
conversational group. Two men in colorful dashikis stood to greet him, smiling
broadly. Hands were shaken and backs slapped as greetings echoed under the
vaulted ceiling.
“How was the flight?”
“Late leaving Dodoma, as usual,”
answered the taller of the two visitors. His vowels were round, his consonants
clipped.
“The Tanzanian concept of time continues
to play hell with our western schedules. Well, come on up. The group is
waiting to hear your report on the orphanage project.”
As the next elevator arrived to
whisk them away the visitor said, “We’re making progress, thank God. The
district council finally approved the plans.”
“May I help you?”
The voice belonged to an older woman
seated behind the low, sweeping curve of a granite console that appeared to have
sprouted seamlessly from the floor. She had gray-blue eyes, silver hair
cropped in a stylish pixie, and silver teardrops dangling from her ears. Her nameplate
read, “Receptionist.”
“We have an appointment with Malcolm
Conover,” I said, as we crossed the lobby to stand in front of her. A hint of
patchouli wafted across the console.
“Of course, Ms. Gregson; we’ve been
expecting you. If you and your assistant will have a seat, I’ll call up to let
him know you’ve arrived.”
“Thanks.”
We ambled over and sat down. People
came and went in a steady, energetic stream that gave the five elevators a constant
workout. Expressions tended toward cheerful and sincere, modes of dress toward
casual-eclectic. The atmosphere was laden with warmth and good will toward men.
Sentiments in direct contrast to those
displayed by CAL’s founder, if you could believe Bobby Mae Tolliver. I found
it hard not to, given the fact that her opinion had been seconded by the two
cab drivers, three store clerks, and one off-duty traffic cop we had also
talked to that morning. If word on the street was any indication, our boy
Malcolm wouldn’t be voted Austin’s favorite son any time soon.
Speak of the devil
, I mused as our host strolled out
of the far-right elevator, and we stood to greet him.
“Amanda.” He was all smiles. “Good
to see you again.”
I plastered on a fake smile of my
own. “Thanks.” Tipped my head toward Baker. “This is my assistant, Denny
Barker. Denny, Malcolm Conover.”
The two shook hands. “Welcome to
Change a Life,” said Conover.
“Quite a place.” Dennis glanced
around. “Busy.”
“Oh, this is merely the tip of the
iceberg. Come on, I’ll show you.” He started toward the elevators, and we
followed. “I thought we would have lunch in the cafeteria; it’ll give you a
chance to meet some of our staff before we adjourn to my office. I hope you
like veggie burgers? We try to keep expenses down here at headquarters.”
“One of my favorite food groups,” I lied.
The door slid down, and the elevator started to climb. “Listen, no offense,
but I hope this tour won’t take too long. I’m curious as a cat about this
information you have for me. Not only that, we have to be in Philly by seven.”
He nodded. Serious.
Understanding. “Trust me, Amanda, the tour will only last as long as it takes
to establish appearances. I’m as eager for our talk as you are.”
Eagan’s point, exactly. One I would
do well to keep in mind.
“And you’re convinced your material
will help us break up the Ferrymen?”
“Oh, yes. I never would have asked
you to make the trip, otherwise. Please believe me when I say I believe you’ll
get more than you bargained for when all is said and done.”
Not if you get yours first.
We ate lunch family style, twenty of
us sitting at a long, gray table in the sunlit dining room on the fourth floor
in the cornucopia’s narrow waist. The veggie burgers, tasting only slightly of
sawdust, were served with a side of bright ideas liberally seasoned with
boundless enthusiasm and a passionate desire to help the helpless. After lunch
we toured the building. The offices were divided into various theaters of
operation: Africa, South America, the Sino-Russian Confederation, Tri-America.
Contrary to expectations—mine, at
least—not everybody who worked at Change a Life was young and naïve. A few of
them had clearly hoed long, hard rows in their days. But regardless of age or
experience, every staff member we met appeared to be on fire with the vision
and willing to give it his or her all. I got the impression the CAL team would
make the world a better place or cheerfully die trying.
To a man and woman, they idolized
Malcolm Conover, hanging on each utterance with starry-eyed devotion. Earnest
and dedicated themselves, they couldn’t imagine him as less than he appeared.
Never dreamed the compassion he wore on his sleeve was all for show, couldn’t
begin to understand the mindset of a man who would play the world’s misery like
a violin, as long as it suited his filthy purposes. I didn’t look forward to
disillusioning them, but I would do whatever it took to stop the killing. I
only hoped CAL’s best and brightest managed to bounce back and pick up the
pieces afterwards. Millions of desperate people were depending on them.
We finally made our way to the tenth
floor. Conover told his secretary to hold all calls and waved us into his
office and a pair of black-leather studio chairs angled in front of a desk I
recognized from our recent call.
His office was roomy but fell short
of spacious. The décor was quality without being over the top—small walnut
conference table ringed by six chairs, powder-blue carpet, a healthy rubber
plant in the far corner. Photos lined the walls to our left and right, aid-in-progress
shots taken all over the globe—wells being sunk in arid plains, medics setting
up shop in jungle clearings. If Conover had been what he claimed to be—namely,
the well-to-do CEO of a charitable organization that spent eighty percent of
every credit on the people it served—the office would have been perfect.
He closed the door behind us and
crossed the room, shucking the tweed jacket he wore over a plain white dress
shirt and draping it over the back of his high-backed swivel-chair. Then he turned
to face us, the glass wall behind him, the sky his brilliant blue backdrop, the
sun haloing his silver head. Imagine a stained-glass window starring the devil
in drag as an angel of light, and you would get the general effect.
“Can I offer you some refreshment?”
he asked. “Coffee? A glass of iced tea?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“Denny?”
“I’m good.”
Conover sat, folded his hands atop
the desk and regarded us soberly. “I think the tour went well. Our staff seem
to have accepted our explanation for your visit. You’ve been wonderfully
patient. Now, where should I begin?”
“Your information is only as good as
your source,” I said. “So let’s start there.”
“All right. Until a week ago, my
informant was a small-time arms dealer operating out of the Horn of Africa. I
won’t give you her name, because she’s trying to make a fresh start, and I
believe everyone deserves a second chance. Given your profession, I’m sure you
understand and sympathize with the need to protect a source.”
Every reporter’s soft spot. Nice
touch.
“Sure, Mr. Conover …
Malcolm
,”
I amended before he could correct me. “Problem is, singles bars are full of losers
who claim to be arms dealers. It’s their favorite pickup line. Sometimes it
even works. How do you know your contact is legit?”
“We were introduced by a personal
acquaintance of mine, an ex-policeman from Djibouti-Somalia. The two evidently
crossed paths more than once during his career, and although their relationship
was adversarial, she learned to respect his integrity.
“A few weeks ago, she decided to get
out of the illegal arms trade, before, as she put it, ‘one of the gangsters I
do business with decides to gnaw off the hand that feeds him.’ Her plan was to
trade amnesty for her client database, but she needed a middleman she could
trust to broker the deal with the authorities. She remembered my friend and
managed to track him to one of our medical clinics, where he now acts as head
of security. He refused to represent her until he had proof her files were current
and would be useful. Because she trusted him, she agreed to let him examine a
limited number of transactions. He sent the files to me, and I had my people
go over them. I also had them scan the Cloud for peripheral chatter amongst
the buyers listed, for traffic that might support her data. We found a great
deal of corroborating evidence.”
“Okay, so chances are, she’s on the
level. Now tell me about the Ferrymen
connection.”
“It isn’t direct, but it is
compelling. While combing the sample files, we came across a special order for
a toxin that could be bioengineered to interact with a specific individual’s
DNA.”
“The Yanos hit,” murmured Dennis.
“That was our thought,” agreed
Conover.
He tossed out this potentially
explosive nugget with an expression of complete sincerity. If I hadn’t been wise
to his act, a lead like this would have launched me halfway out of the frying
pan. Then again, given the way my inner antenna was vibrating, maybe I was already
airborne. I angled my upper body toward him, doing my best imitation of a sucker
about to bite. At least, I hoped it was an imitation. “Did your source fill
the order?”
“She didn’t have the resources, but she
recommended someone who did. BioWep, Incorporated.”
“I’ve heard of them.” My voice
hinted at suppressed excitement. It wasn’t totally put on. “Privately owned.
Believed to work both sides of the fence.”
“Does the information help?”
My mind raced. BioWep as a supplier
was totally believable. What was going on in that twisted mind of his? Give me
the scent with a solid tip, then sit back and let my nose lead me into an
ambush like the one that took out Cuey and Michaels? Not the quickest way to resolve
his problem, but then, a pro like him probably had the patience of a spider. He
might even enjoy the anticipation.
If that was the plan, why did this
whole conversation feel way out of whack? Because I could
feel
the menace
radiating off Conover, and the threat didn’t feel distant or spider webby. It
felt danger-close, like a trapdoor under my feet. Time to rattle the monster’s
cage and see what jumped out.
“The information is interesting, but
it could take weeks to follow up. Not that I don’t appreciate the tip,” I
hastened to add. “It will definitely help us tie up the loose ends.”
“Loose ends?”
“That’s about all we have left at
this point.”
“I don’t understand.”
I sat back and stared at him like I
was trying to decide how much to let on. Let the suspense build, then leaned
forward again. “Confidentially, Malcolm, I’m ready to make my move now. In
less than forty-eight hours, the Ferrymen will be history.” The words no
sooner left my lips, when space-time started to slide. I braced against the
now-familiar vertigo and said, “I’ve got an inside source.”
“Carpathian chick,” Dennis added. “One
of their mechanics.”
We had agreed to give up Sidorov to
prove we weren’t blowing smoke. Also as incentive to keep her in line. But
since Jack had her safely tucked away in the bowels of CIIS headquarters, and
her new identity—including face and fingerprint transplants—was already in the
works, the risk was minimal.
“That’s …. I don’t know what to
say. Are you sure this woman is who she claims to be?”