Crash Read online

  Farmer laughed. “You’re tap-dancing faster than Fred Astaire,” he said. “Thing is, I got another call about you this afternoon.”

  “Sir?”

  “Betty Ladd, who’s a straight shooter in my book, said she was sure that Treadwell was up to something no good. Could be whatever it is has something to do with a computer virus or something. This thing apparently could screw up stock exchanges around the world. At that breakfast you had with Treadwell and his crew this morning, you were all toasting it.”

  Nast struggled for a response.

  “And it had a weird name too,” Farmer said. “Abacus, I think Betty said.”

  86

  Bykov waited a couple of hours before he called Anosov back to see if there was any good news about the flash drive after Panov’s failure at the morgue.

  Anosov answered on the first ring, as if he’d been expecting the call. “Yes.”

  “It’s me, what have you come up with?”

  “There’s no way we’re getting the flash drive from the dead guy’s things at the morgue, not without causing a lot of suspicion, something I definitely don’t want.”

  “Our employers won’t give a shit about your problems, Leonid. Either get the flash drive, or come back here with the money, because I sure as hell won’t pay for your screwups.”

  “I’ll think about it. But I’m bailing out within the next twenty-four hours. I’ve already got just about everything in place.”

  “These people have a long reach.”

  “Listen to me, Yuri, shit is starting to go east, if you know what I mean,” Anosov said. East was the direction of Siberia from Moscow. To a Russian it meant bad things were about to happen.

  “Ya ponimau,” Bykov said. I understand. “If you’re going to Marseille, bury yourself for a few months until things cool down.”

  “Canada first.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to drive the woman up to Montreal. I’ve already been offered one hundred thousand euros sight unseen.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Sometime in the morning. I want to be out of the city by dawn.”

  “What about your people?”

  Anosov hesitated for a moment. “Valentin’s tagging along. He’s an asshole, but he’s a friend.”

  “The others?”

  “They’re sticking it out.”

  “Go with God, staryy drug,” Bykov said. Old friend.

  “And you.”

  * * *

  Butch Hardy was just about to leave his office to check on his security people, mainly at the front and rear entrances to the building, when his phone rang. It was an outside line.

  “Hardy.”

  “It’s Dugan,” Bykov said. “There’s no way we’ll be able to get the flash drive without causing some serious blowback. Which wouldn’t do you any good if it’s something you need to keep secret.”

  Hardy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Goddamnit, you vouched for those people.”

  “They’re your people. Anyway, I was told that the kid’s parents are coming for the body in the morning. Unless they’re computer experts, they won’t know what a flash drive is or how to use it, so your secrets are safe.”

  “We want our money back.”

  “It won’t happen.”

  “We’ll see,” Hardy said, and he slammed the phone down.

  87

  Treadwell was in his office talking with Dammerman about Betty Ladd and her suspicions when Ashley buzzed him.

  “It’s Mr. Hardy on two,” she said.

  Treadwell put it on speakerphone. “What do you have for me?”

  “It’s a no-go. But the good news is that the kid’s parents are picking up his body first thing in the morning, and it’s highly unlikely they’ll know what the thing is or even care. Anyway, it’s the investment bank’s business and is probably encrypted.”

  “What about our money?” Dammerman asked.

  “It’s gone, and I suggest that we treat it as an ordinary business loss and don’t pursue the matter. But it’s your call, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

  Dammerman started to say something, but Treadwell shook his head.

  “You’re right, Butch,” he said. “We’ll just hold off for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hardy said, and Treadwell hung up.

  “What do you want me to do?” Dammerman asked.

  “Butch is right, we’ll just leave it be for now.”

  88

  Anosov was at an upstairs window in his room, staring down at the sparse traffic on the street below. It was a workday afternoon, and most people in Brighton Beach were on the job somewhere. By five or six tonight the bars would be filled with laughing men and their women, who by midnight would be drunk and thinking about heading home for a few hours’ sleep before the morning shift.

  Ordinary people leading ordinary lives, something he’d not had since his Spetsnaz training days, and especially not since he’d been given a dishonorable discharge for striking an officer. The prick had deserved it, and the court-martial board had agreed, so he wasn’t given any jail time.

  And now Brighton Beach was over for him. He and Valentin had plenty of money to get to Marseille, with a quick stop in Montreal, and set up shop for the next gig. But maybe not for eight months or so. Time, he thought, to take a break and enjoy himself.

  He turned away from the window and went down the hall to the bathroom, where he washed his hands and splashed some water on his face.

  When he was finished, he went back to the attic stairs, which he pulled down, and headed up to the woman.

  Time, he thought again, to start enjoying himself.

  * * *

  The tiny attic room was dark except for a little light shining through the edges of the door, as Cassy tried to work the balltop hinge pin out of its sockets with her bare fingers, which were bloodied now after a half hour’s work. But the pin had come loose, and she thought it would come out, when she heard the attic stairs swing down.

  She stepped back, wiping her bloodied fingers on her jeans as someone came up the stairs.

  It was going to start now, and she didn’t know how she was going to take it. She wanted Ben more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. And it wasn’t to save her—there were too many of them downstairs for even Ben to take on—but for him to be here and tell her that he would love her no matter what happened.

  The latch was thrown, and the man who had searched her came in, leaving the door half open so that there was some light.

  “Take off your clothes,” he said.

  Cassy backed up a step. “No.”

  “If you make it easy, I won’t have to hurt you. But I will if need be.”

  She backed up again. “No, you bastard!” she yelled.

  He was on her in an instant, and she only had a vague notion that he had hit her in the face with his fist when she fell back onto the bed, her stomach roiling and her senses fuzzing out.

  89

  Hardy was just leaving his office to go downstairs and have another chat with Masters about the program Cassy Levin was working on when his phone rang. It was Roger Adams.

  “You’ve got trouble coming your way, Butch.”

  “Tell me that you’re keeping Whalen overnight like I asked.”

  “The guy’s boss is pals with Mayor Young, who called Voight, who ordered me to release the bastard. I told the prick to stay away from you, but he said his first stop was the bank.”

  Hardy was thinking fast. “How long ago was that?”

  “Half hour.”

  “Christ,” Hardy said and hung up.

  90

  Chip found a parking spot on Nassau, half a block from Burnham Pike. “I’m going in with you,” he said.

  “Stay here,” Ben told him.

  “If and when you start busting heads, I’ll stand back, but for now two government IDs beat one. Anyway this is an investment bank, which means it’s a civilized plac
e, filled with civil people, not macho, knuckle-dragging tough guys.”

  “Listen to me. I need you as a backup when the shit hits the fan. I need to keep you in reserve. I don’t want anyone other than the cop who arrested me to know your face.”

  Chip was frustrated. “Well, I’m not going to let you go into the bank packing. In the first place they’re probably expecting you, and carrying a firearm in this state carries a pretty stiff penalty. Huggard wouldn’t be able to bail you out again.”

  “You win, but in the meantime I need you to pinpoint the Brighton Beach location where they took Cassy.”

  “I’m on it,” Chip said. “But I assume that after we’re done here, we’re going over to the morgue to try for the flash drive. Could be we’ll be able to find out something about the Russian who used his Raven ID.”

  “I’m depending on you.”

  “I have you covered.”

  “What floor is Treadwell’s office?”

  “Fifty-four.”

  Ben got out of the car, walked up to the Burnham Pike tower. Inside he approached the registration desk, where two large men in blue blazers with the firm’s logo on the breast pockets looked up.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Treadwell,” Ben told them, showing them his driver’s license.

  “Do you have you an appointment, Mr. Whalen?” one of the security people asked.

  “No, but I think he’s probably expecting me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The agent picked up the phone and called someone. “He’s here.”

  A woman was just getting off the elevator. Ben turned and, moving fast but not running, vaulted the turnstile that blocked the lobby from the elevators. He got to the car before the doors closed.

  “Stop now,” the guard at the turnstile shouted.

  Ben hit the button for fifty, the highest floor it would go to, and as the doors closed, he saw one of the guards at the desk pick up a phone.

  91

  Hardy was waiting for the executive elevator to take him upstairs to warn Treadwell that Cassy’s boyfriend might be showing up here when the security officer’s call from downstairs rolled over to his cell phone.

  “Whalen showed up like you said he would, but before we could stop him he grabbed an elevator, and he’s on his way up.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “I didn’t see a bulge under his jacket, but he could be carrying in a holster at his back. But the guy’s not big. Can’t be more than five-nine or ten, and lightweight,” the officer said. “Do you want me to shut down the elevators?”

  “No,” Hardy said, making the snap decision.

  The elevator came, and on the way up he used the house phone to call Treadwell.

  “Mr. Treadwell’s office, who may I say is calling?” Ashley answered.

  “I’m on my way up, but we have some trouble coming our way. Tell the boss.”

  92

  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.”

  93

  Dammerman showed up at Treadwell’s office, his fleshy face downcast. “We’ve got a problem, Mr. T,” he said, closing the glass door behind him.

  “Christ, is Whalen back?”

  “No, and this is ten times as bad. It’s going to hit the news any minute now, and I thought you’d want to be prepared. The media’s bound to come calling for you to make a statement.”

  Treadwell slumped back in his seat. He’d spent the last hour or so appeasing several board members and a number of important clients who were worried about the way the market had taken a dump just before the closing bell.

  “What’s it mean?” had been the common refrain.

  “Hold on, we’re on top of it,” had been his reply.

  But now Dammerman’s warning that something even worse was coming at them—at him personally—wasn’t something he wanted to hear. “What is it this time, Clyde?”

  “Farmer just fired Spencer Nast.”

  Treadwell sat bolt upright, as if he’d just received a high-voltage shock. “What the hell for?”

  “The official version is that Spence resigned because he wants to spend more time with his family.”

  “He hates his wife and kid,” Treadwell said. “Have you talked to him?”

  “He texted me about it, and said he wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

  “This is a goddamn disaster, or it will be if the idiot opens his mouth to the wrong people to save his own ass,” Treadwell said. He called his secretary. “Ash, get me Spence.”

  * * *

  Spencer Nast sat on a park bench in Lafayette Park across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House,
unable to grasp what had just happened to him. Tourists were peering through the fence, hoping to get a glimpse of the president or someone else important, but it seemed like they were from another planet, another galaxy.

  White-shirted security people had escorted him out of the building and down the driveway to the Northwest Appointments Gate. His office in the Eisenhower Building would be inventoried, and anything belonging to him, and not the government, would be returned as soon as practicable.

  Farmer had told him to get the hell out of his sight in front of Miller and Nichols. “You no longer work for me because I don’t trust you.”

  Kolberg had hustled him out of the Roosevelt Room, where a pair of security officers were waiting to escort him past West Wing staffers who looked up as he passed and then either averted their gaze or openly grinned. The walk had been more than humiliating.

  Sitting now, trying to work out his options, he was mostly at a loss. The only things that really mattered were the Abacus deal and his position at BP. But he wasn’t sure of anything.

  His cell phone chimed, and he picked up. It was Treadwell, who didn’t sound happy.

  “What the hell happened, for Christ’s sake? I counted on you to shield us from anything that might come our way from your end down there.”

  “Nothing I could do about it, Reid,” Nast said. “Apparently Betty called Farmer and warned him that you were up to no good. He believed her, and he’s convinced that I’m still more loyal to you and BP than I am to him. I tried to tell him that wasn’t the case, but he didn’t believe me.”

  “Jesus, is that all?”

  “It’s Don Pennington. I talked to him about the Treasury secretary’s job, and he evidently called Farmer to find out if I had been telling the truth. I never thought the moron would be so stupid as that, but Farmer threw it in my face as well.”

  “You told me that you had him in the bag,” Treadwell said. “What else have you screwed up?”