Project Northwest (7 page)

He showered, shaved, dressed, kissed Bridget,
who stretched out her arms, yawned, begged him to stay home, and
pouted when she didn’t get her way.

“I can’t, I have to go.” He gave her another
kiss and was back in the kitchen collecting the keys, cell phone,
and leaving a note on the fridge.

“I’m taking your car, please check on mine
when you wake up. I left you a note to remind you,” he shouted
toward the bedroom.

“Okay, baby, where is it?” The question came
from deep under the covers.

“The police car lot, I suspect, or they may
have had it towed.”

James arrived at the Washington Common Bank
building to what many would consider a hero’s welcome.

He received well wishes and blessings when he
entered the lobby from people he didn’t even know. The personal
closeness of the elevators offered even greater opportunity of “...
thank god you’re okay ...” conversations, followed by “... it
could’ve been much worse ...” anecdotes. None of the conversations
actually included him. They were more about him and always ended
with the storyteller’s own personal experiences with near
death.

One of the co-workers compared James’s crash
to that of Karl Brownstone and noted the similarities. Karl had a
terrible crash on New Year’s Day, witnesses say his car was
‘out
of control’
as it rammed into the concrete barrier of the
Bainbridge Island ferry terminal and burst into flames. Now, almost
four months later, James was in an accident in the same area of the
city. She patted James on the shoulder, “Thank god the result was
different this time.”

James had all but forgotten Karl Brownstone.
The accident happened over a holiday weekend and on the cusp of a
New Year, he like many of the others, just moved on, accepted it,
never thought more of it—Karl was drunk, lost control of the
vehicle, and died in a fiery crash. He couldn’t help but think
there were similarities and wondered if Karl’s untimely death had
been the handiwork of Mr. Wright and his team.

By the time James arrived at the bank’s
security screening station, he’d never felt so loved. Everyone was
extremely pleased to learn that he was okay.

He placed his cell phone and wallet in his
employee locker outside the Tier IV, Class 125 bank data room.
Security was quick, but thorough, absolutely no media, storage
devices, or cell phones were allowed into the data room, and signs
with the universal circle-backslash symbol for
no
over
images of sample media devices reminded everyone of the contraband,
along with the big ‘No Exceptions’ and ‘It’s Your Responsibility’
signs above the security station.

Security used a two-prong attack against the
bank employees and OTS agents. Each was checked on entry and exit
and if by chance, anyone was found to have contraband inside the
data room—it was well known the perpetrator would be fired on the
spot. ‘Security is both the responsibility of the employee and
security officers’ was the motto of the day.

James made his way through security, took a
deep breath, and entered the meeting room. The supervisor types
were dressed in suits and ties. All of the data specialists,
including James, were dressed in khakis and their favorite
throwback golf tees. They waited as the last few stragglers came
in.

The day was a casual dress day and the tone
of the meeting was usually very relaxed on such days, but today’s
meeting was serious and heavy in nature. The financial markets were
still reeling in turmoil and 100 percent accurate data was the call
of the day. The data was needed on time so reports could be
completed by others, there was to be no acceptable excuse for
inaccurate or late data. Everyone listened intently and sipped from
their Starbucks coffee cups. The only thing missing was the
imaginary cheerleaders with pom-poms, shouting, “We can do it, yes
we can!”

James’s accident was last on the agenda, but
only as a passing mention. The guys were more interested in the
state of his beautiful mustang.

“Was it the mustang?” a co-worker asked.

James could only nod his head as the group of
guys collectively exhaled in mourning.

When the meeting broke, everyone was
energized, everyone except James. He struggled to start work.
Anticipation ran rampant in his veins and clouded every thought.
When was he going to be contacted? What were they going to ask him
to do? Could he really do this? Was today the day he became a
criminal?

The only criminal activity that came to mind
was the day he lied and told his father he had traded something for
the BB gun he was shooting in the back yard. When his father asked
what was traded, James was lost for words and swiftly busted.

He continued to lie until his father knocked
on Billy Owens’ door. Realizing the gig was up, he confessed, took
a spanking, and was forced to mow lawns for two weeks until he had
enough money to buy a BB gun.

His father took the money, along with James,
to the hobby store, purchased a BB gun, let James hold it in his
hands while they drove to a prearranged meeting with the
quartermaster of Troop 380. His father told James to give the
unopened gun to the quartermaster. The young boy accepted and said
he would add it to the equipment inventory and thanked James for
the donation. The lesson, as stated by James’s father: It wasn’t
enough to be punished. James needed to know how it felt to lose
something for which he’d worked. He was ten years old then and he
still remembered it like it was yesterday.

What would my father say about this?
James questioned as he made his way to his cubicle.

He turned on the monitor in his workspace. He
loved his job and couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that at
some point, maybe today, maybe the next, he was going to be
required to do something illegal.

Why me?
He wondered, and realized the
answer was obvious: they picked him because he was the model agent,
always on time, was so dependable that he was often given tasks
with little to no supervision, steady girlfriend, nice condo, money
in the bank, and word was he was being primed for a promotion. He
was the perfect mark, had the trust of his superiors, nobody
watched him and he had a hell of a lot to lose. He was willing to
lose everything except Bridget—he couldn’t lose her or put her in
danger and that’s all the leverage they needed. He knew it and he
knew they definitely knew it.

He said thank you to a number of co-workers
that stopped by and asked how he was doing and when everyone was
settled and working, he purposely poured coffee onto the data brick
connected to his monitor. The machine complained and shorted out
and the monitor went blank, the little green power light flashing
showed the only life remaining in the system, and even it seemed to
understand the bleakness of the situation. James slowly mopped up
the spill, intentionally letting the coffee run over the desk.

James’s immediate supervisor, Mr. Stone,
stopped by and inquired as to the health of his favorite agent.

“I see an accident can’t keep you away. How
are you feeling James?”

“I feel fine, sir, but I just made a big
mistake.”

“What’s that?”

“I spilled coffee all over the desk, and I
think I fried the brick.”

“Damn it, James,” said Mr. Stone, as he
pushed past James and noticed coffee running all over the desk,
under the keyboard and mouse and pooling around the monitor stand.
Mr. Stone turned in disgust and left the cubicle.

Loudly, so that everyone could hear, he
announced, “How many times have I told everyone here, there are to
be no drinks at your desks!” The response from everyone in earshot
was the tell-tale sounds of half-full coffee cups being tossed into
the empty waste baskets, followed by sighs. A noticeable quiet
blanketed the data room, leaving only the hum of the machines and
distant phones ringing. Everyone was busy working or pretending
they were working.

“Okay, I’ll get a tech down here in a
heartbeat. You know if you hadn’t been in an accident, I’d be
reaming you a new one right now, right?”

“Yes, sir, I know,” said James acting
sheepishly.

“In the meantime, grab an empty cubicle and
get to work. Everyone get to work!” Mr. Stone stormed off toward
his office.

James found the new cubicle, searched and
found a security envelope, grabbed a felt tip pen, and tucked the
envelope under his shirt and placed the pen in his pocket. He left
the data room, cleared security, retrieved his wallet, and took the
elevators down to the Art Museum. He entered the public bathroom
off the main hallway. The museum wasn’t open and the bathroom was
empty, so he quickly penned the address:

From: SAM

102 Seattle WA 98316

To: Mark DeSantis

General Delivery

2000 Royal Oaks Post Office

Sacramento CA 95813

He carefully pulled the folded note from his
wallet, examined the contents, and was pleased to see the hair
still tucked neatly at the bottom of the makeshift shroud. He
refolded the paper, wrote
‘Hair Inside, Thanks, Mark!’,
and
placed it into the envelope.

He dug into his wallet and found the packet
of self-adhesive stamps he had purchased during his only trip to
the post office in years. He’d mailed four Christmas cards and
stored the remaining stamps in his wallet, convinced he could use
them someday, and amused himself with the fact that his hunch paid
off in a big way. It was the best $8.80 he ever spent.

He affixed two stamps and tucked the letter
in the back of his pants, under his shirt, and exited the bathroom.
No one was waiting. The hallway was empty.

The elevator doors opened and a group of
businessmen made room for him to enter. The elevator button panel
showed they were heading to the data room floor and his heart began
to pound. He tucked his chin into his chest and tried to calm down,
purposely avoiding eye contact. The morning conversation was
centered on Shea Stadium and its impending closure and James
assumed the group was from New York.

The doors opened, the group exited, and James
continued up to the employee patio. He found the floor standing
mailbox, looked around and when the coast was clear, he dropped the
envelope into the mailbox. His heart was pounding and he was
beginning to sweat from all the apprehension. He tried to calm
himself as he took the elevator back to the data room floor.

Through security, he entered the data room
and immediately noted the bunch of suits outside a meeting room. It
was the same group with whom he shared the elevator. Mr. Stone saw
him enter and said, “There he is, James, come here for a moment,
would you?”

James hesitated then walked over toward the
group of strangers.

Mr. Stone was singing his praises. “James is
one of our best and brightest, you’ll have to excuse his
appearance—he was in a car accident on Friday and in true fashion
of team spirit, he arrived to work early this morning. We could use
more like James.”

“Who couldn’t?” agreed the suits leader, as
he extended his hand and vaguely explained they were from an
insurance company, on property to look over the bank’s numbers.
James took his hand in a hearty shake and forgot each name
exchanged during the introductions. He repeated, “Car accident on
Friday,” when he saw the individuals’ reactions to the minor cuts
and bruises on his face.

He did remember one name, not because of the
name, but because of the color of her eyes, a transparent blue-gray
stone color, almost like granite. She was absolutely stunning,
reminded him of a modern day Elizabeth Taylor, same curvaceous
body, black hair that was dyed, but done professionally at some
topnotch VIP salon, designer jacket, and shoes. She exuded
confidence, and those eyes...who would ever forget those eyes? She
could easily be on TV pushing her own perfume or lingerie product
line or on a pin–up poster in some past war.

She introduced herself as Shelly Spenser and
when the moment presented itself, she placed her hand on James’s
shoulder and asked, “Are you clever, James?”

James was taken aback. He didn’t know if she
was the contact, but she certainly fit the bill, what she said next
all but sealed the deal.

“Bricks aren’t monitored James. Monitoring a
physical connection or hardware on the network is antiquated—it’s
your login that’s monitored. No damage done, but leave the clever
stuff to us, okay?” she implored as she patted James on the
shoulder with the true intent of reprimand. James, not slow on the
uptake, understood completely.

James followed her into the meeting room and
found a seat opposite her. The leader, now representing himself as
a lawyer, quickly laid out the purpose of the meeting. His team
represented certain insurance institutions in the New York area,
primarily a collective group of Wall Street firms who were
interested in how the bank was fairing in the turmoil that was
happening in the financial markets.

They didn’t want anything secret or
protected, but needed the publically released information first
hand. He further set out the team’s responsibilities; he and his
three associates would be doing a general audit, while Shelly
focused on an equally important but more manageable small side
project for the purpose of creating daily summary reports.

The insurance lawyer presented each person
with a blanket non-disclosure and confidentiality agreement and
everyone signed, most not even reading the document. The meeting
ended with Mr. Stone welcoming the group and assuring all legal
cooperation. He then told James he would be paired with Shelly on
the side project. James’s heart jumped into his throat and he felt
everyone in the room could see his panic. He knew it had officially
started, he was sure Mr. Wright, and his linebacker friend were
toasting at that very moment to a job well done. Yes, they had
cornered the predictable, dependable James Spain. He was going to
be their patsy.