One Child (16 page)

Chapter

27

Frankfurt, Germany

Julie
Lindstrom checked the list. It was concise and uncluttered - every item necessary to bringing off a perfect show. At the top of the page was a single word followed by a date.

Frankfurt - August 10, 2010.

U2 was in town and Frankfurt was in a frenzy over the concert scheduled for Commerzbank Arena that night. A local radio station was promising two free front row tickets for the show to the fan who could come up with the most original new lyrics for
Where the Streets Have No Name
. In German of course. An affiliated television station was giving up four of the coveted ducats for the cleverest clone of the band. Faux Bonos and Edges were everywhere. The whole thing was surreal.

It was business as usual for the woman heading up security for the world's most popular rock band.

Julie
scanned down the list. All the different levels of personnel, including security, were listed. Crowd safety stewards. Front of house staff. Hospitality stewards. Back stage security. Gate auditors. Merchandise security. Night security staff. Concession checkers. The list ran on for two pages, showing the local security personnel needed for the gig and the name of each staff member who was overseeing them. Her staff, and no one else, handled the most crucial parts of the band's security once the stars arrived and were on-site. The extras watched over things before the band arrived and formed the ring of heavies around the stage when Bono and the boys were playing. The real security, the stuff that actually kept the band safe, happened behind the scenes.

She set the list on the table in her hotel suite and picked up the schematics of Commerzbank Arena. It was originally built in 1925 and updated over the years, but had been completely renovated from the ground up between 2002 and 2005. Her assistant had used a comprehensive set of the latest drawings to arrange the arrival and departure routes for the band and their immediate entourage, and she double-checked his work. There were two points on the route that worried her and she marked them in red. She would be at the stadium five hours prior to the concert and would walk every step of the proposed paths in and out of the stadium. Nothing was ever left to chance.

Her cell phone rang and she pushed the green button. A voice tinged with a Russian accent was on the other end. It was Dimitri
Volstov
, the promoter for the Moscow concert. He liked details and was treating the concert as if it were a business transaction inside
Murmansk-Technika
, his multi-billion dollar flagship company. He was professional and dealt with things on his end as they arose. She liked promoters who weren't constantly on the phone whining at her.

"Hello, Dimitri,"
Julie
said.

She caught her reflection in the wall mirror and pushed her shoulder-length mousy brown hair back from her face. She hated the color. It was so nondescript - so vanilla. Tiny lines ran from the corners of her eyes and she touched her skin, applying just enough pressure to smooth them. The rest of her face was still young looking for her age and her eyes were bright green. She couldn't begin to count the comments - compliments, actually - she had received on her eyes. She was pretty. It wasn't ego, simply a fact. And Dimitri
Volstov
was handsome and rich. In fact, the man was ridiculously rich. And he was single. Every time they talked she wondered if he found her attractive. "How are things in Moscow?"

"Wonderful, now that I'm talking to you."

Volstov
was one of her favorite people - anywhere. She had known him for about two years - their initial introduction had come when he was staging a benefit concert for Afghan refugees in late 2008. She seldom stayed in touch with concert promoters, but
Volstov
was different. He was generous and popular for the right reasons. She liked him a lot. Probably more than she should like a client. "What can I do for you, Dimitri?"

"We're getting close to the date and I wanted to know if there is anything you need of me."

"Not right now. I'll have an advance team in Moscow on August 22
nd
, three days prior to the concert. They'll be in touch with you and your staff and will go over everything. Until then, nothing. I already have the plans of the stadium that you sent me and we're completely staffed for security at all levels. We're good, but thanks for offering."

"You're organized." A pause, then, "Where are you today?"

"Frankfurt. Then we have two shows in Horsens and two in Helsinki, and after that...Moscow."

Volstov
's voice grew serious. "How is Bono's back?" he asked.

"Better than it was a couple of months ago. It looks like the European tour will go ahead. This is only their second show after the cancelled North American tour, but he's feeling okay and wants to perform. Don't quote me on it, but I think your show in Moscow will go as planned."

"Fantastic. The city is getting excited and there are all sorts of competitions for people to win tickets."

"It's good when the city gets engaged. The band likes the energy."

"When are you flying in?"
Volstov
asked. "I'd like to have dinner."

"I'm not sure if I'll come in with the advance team or a day later. And of course we'll have dinner. I might even let you pay," she teased him. No one took their wallet out when they were with
Volstov
in his city.

"This is good. I'll let you go."

"I'll talk to you soon."

Julie
hung up and walked to the coffee machine on the credenza. She poured a cup, added some cream and sugar, and sat on the couch, reflecting on the rollercoaster ride her life had taken to get her to this place and time. Thirteen years with the FBI, embroiled in domestic counter-terrorism, had given her the credentials she needed to open her own security firm. It had also cost her the chance to have children and finally, her marriage. She didn't blame her ex, he had taken a subservient role to the bureau for ten of the eleven years they had stayed together. The first year was the honeymoon, then the job had steamrollered both of them. In retrospect, she realized she had let it. She had made a choice and it had turned out to be a very bad one. Ryan was a wonderful man and she missed him. Everyday.

She was a fit, attractive thirty-eight year old who spent at least an hour in the gym five or six days a week. Other than that, her focus right now was her company.
Details Matter
was fast becoming the premier security firm for high-profile bands and celebrities on tour. She had built her business by establishing herself and her team as the one company that could think of every detail and ensure the event came off seamlessly. Three years and counting, and she now had U2 on her client list, among others. Having the Irish rockers really helped. Her marketing and business departments were in negotiations with heaps of big-name bands for their upcoming tours. Once you had the best, the rest followed.

The hotel phone rang and she plucked it from the cradle. It was one of the locals who were sub-contracting the muscle for the front of the stage. Problems. Nothing new. She listened, then jotted down the concerns and penciled in a name behind each line. Identify the problem. Come up with a solution. Assign a person to initiate action and carry through until the problem didn't exist. There was no such thing as a problem without a solution. She assured the man his concerns would be dealt with immediately. It disarmed him and when he hung up the phone, his voice was even and relaxed. She set the phone back in the cradle and pulled out her cell. Not a big deal.

Another day, another rock concert.

Chapter

28

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Kandahar Airfield was never without some sort of activity. It serviced a limited number of civilian flights, but the majority of the traffic in and out was military. Supplies and troops for forty-three countries funneled through KAF on their way to and from southern Afghanistan. Teams of logistics experts tagged and organized the massive shipments of food and arms that arrived daily. Among them were eighty-one crates of weapons from Bonn, Germany. The crates had been on the ground for five days, since Thursday, August 5
th
, and it was time to get them moving.

US Army Specialist Eric Strand was in charge of expediting specific shipments of armaments from the airfield to the Forward Operating Bases. This one fell under his jurisdiction. He checked the paperwork, noting that everything was in order and all the necessary spaces were complete with signatures. Sixty-two of the crates were filled with Javelin shoulder-fired anti-tank rockets. They were being assigned to the 5
th
Stryker Brigade. He knew the Stryker crews liked having the Javelins strapped to the sides of their vehicles. It made taking out an entrenched enemy position a lot easier. The rest of the shipment was fine. Two 81mm Mortars, a few crates of M134D mini guns and a couple of hundred M-4s. He signed off on the shipment and authorized it to be loaded for transport to the FOB.

"The boys in Spin Buldak are going to be happy about this one," he said to the soldiers who showed up to move the crates. "Two hundred and fifty Javelins."

The man smiled. "Last time we delivered Javelins they gave us a bottle of Jack Daniels. And there were only about a hundred in that one."

"Lucky you," Strand said.

The driver checked the manifest and said, "Strange for these to be coming out of Germany." He glanced at Strand for a reaction.

Strand shrugged. "The paperwork is in order. That's all I care about."

"Okay. We'll have them to the boys sometime tomorrow."

"Don't forget to get a signature."

The man shook his head. "Not a chance."

Strand wagged a finger at the driver. "Make sure they get to the FOB and don't end up with the ragheads."

"Bastards could do some damage with these."

Strand didn't answer. He didn't want to think about it.

* * *

Midtown Manhattan, New York

"We're chasing at least three stocks," Chui Chang said. He was in the doorway of
Carson
's office on the forty-sixth floor at
Platinus Investments
, and he was not happy with the printouts he held in his hand. "It's not good. We need to back off or we're going to do some damage."

Carson
ran his hands through his hair. They were shaking. Not much, but enough to warn him that the man standing in front of him was probably deadly accurate in his assessment. The stripped down algorithm was proving to be more dangerous than he thought. It was front-running stocks, driving them up beyond their tangible value. Other traders were jumping in, anticipating a bump in the limit price and looking to make a few million with a quick flip. The trouble was, the algorithm believed the frenzy it was creating to be true. Without the additional iterations to smooth the bid-ask curve, it was unable to determine the difference between real value and perceived value.
Platinus Investments
was on the edge of a very slippery slope, and it was dragging a handful of stocks with it.

"Which stocks?" he asked.

Chui read them off the sheet.
Carson
knew all three by name, but wasn't positive what products or services they offered. If memory served him, one was involved in mining operations in South America and another was the parent company for a health care provider. Big business. Not to be rocked easily by a slight glitch in their share prices. He checked his watch. Three o'clock EDT. The market would be closing for the day soon, and there would be no more damage today. Maybe things would settle into place by Wednesday morning. It was a risk he was willing to take.

"We wait and see what happens when the market opens tomorrow," he said. "If things continue to move in the wrong direction, we shut it down and restart the old algo."

"Okay," Chui replied.

"How are things coming on building the new algo?"
Carson
asked.

"Fine, but it takes time. I don't need to tell you that. Writing these things is what you did before you got your ass transferred to that chair."

Carson
couldn't help laughing. "I didn't get transferred, Chui, I got promoted. I'm your boss. Remember?"

"I think what you're doing is dangerous."

"William
Fleming
is happy. And right now, that's what counts."

"Careful serving a boss with a twisted agenda," Chui said.

"What's twisted about making money?"

Carson
's phone rang and Chui shook his head and returned to the hallway.
Carson
checked the caller ID and picked up the phone. "Hi, Alicia."

"Chui talk to you yet?" she asked.

"He just left. You want to grill me as well?"

"I'd like to. The program is behaving badly, but I'm sure Chui told you that. I called about the e-mail address you gave me."

"What about it?"

"Who is this guy,
Carson
? And how did you get mixed up with him?"

Carson
leaned forward, his senses perking up. Alicia's tone was beyond intrigued. It was cautious. Scared, almost. "What's going on?"

"His name is Trey Miller, and he's ex-CIA. When he was with the agency, he was in covert operations."

"He was a spy?"
Carson
asked. The word sounded so strange coming from his lips.

"I'm not sure
exactly
what he did, but he was definitely the type of guy who was responsible for getting the CIA's fingers slapped."

Carson
gripped the phone tighter. "How do you know this?"

A pause, then, "I couldn't get past the firewalls so I asked a friend of mine to have a look."

"Who is this friend of yours?"

"A hacker. His name is Aaron."

"He hacked into the CIA's database?"
Carson
whispered.

Silence.

"Alicia? What did this guy do?"

"He took a quick look at Miller's dossier."

"Where's the information your friend dug up?"
Carson
asked between short breaths. There was no sense in ignoring the result of the intrusion. The damage was done, he might as well see what they had found.

"He downloaded it to a memory stick and gave it to me this morning."

"Can I see it?"

"Of course."

"I'm coming down."
Carson
hung up and grabbed his suit jacket. What the hell was going on? Why was
Fleming
mixed up with someone from the CIA? And now, with the algorithm driving stocks up beyond their true value, things were quickly spinning out of control. Today was Tuesday and
Fleming
was due back in New York on Friday. He needed answers by then.

No, that wasn't right. He needed answers before then.