Watch Dogs (31 page)

“Sir yes sir! We’ll do it together, sir!”

“Just take care of--” He broke off, listening. The doorman was ringing from downstairs. “I’ve got to go.”

Verrick went to the door and touched the intercom button. “Yeah?”

A nasal voice on the intercom said,
“Mr.Verrick, I have a Mr. Quinn here to see you? A Mr. Niall Quinn?”

Quinn? The son of Lucky Quinn. The guy hadn’t made an appointment. He might be the new head of the Club, replacing his old man, but he wasn’t some kind of boss over Verrick and he couldn’t just bust in here anytime he wanted. Still, Verrick was curious about the visit--and he doubted Quinn was here to do him harm. He would never come in person to do that. “Okay, send him up.”

“There is actually another man with him, Mr. Verrick...”

That’d be his bodyguard. “Sure, fine, whatever.”

He opened his door and stuck his head out. His Graywater bodyguards were gawping at some video on a cell phone. “You two!” Verrick called, making them jump. “Stop pulling your puds and get in here! I’ve got a couple of plug uglies from the Irish mob coming up here! Call Three in here--he can watch the door.”

“Sure, boss, we were just--”

Verrick left the door and went to make himself a drink at the little glass bar across from his desk. The Graywaters came in, a young, blond, tanned mercenary and an Arab who used to work for a Saudi prince. They had their Mack 10s on straps over their shoulders.

“You two, leave the door ajar, get over here, stand on either side of the bar. Keep your weapons in your hands, safeties off, but keep them pointed at the floor. Unless you see someone jerk a gun on us.”

The mercs exchanged glances then went into position.

Verrick mixed a brandy Alexander and when he’d just tasted it, someone knocked on frame of the door.

“Yeah it’s open, come in!” Verrick called.

Niall Quinn came in, followed by a beefy red faced man with red hair. Quinn had long wavy black hair, neatly clipped formed by some high priced barber, clipped just over his shoulders. He had thick black eyebrows, and freckles against pale skin. His lips were red, smirking; his eyes bright blue. He wore a long black double breasted coat, open now, to show a fine dove colored vest--and a gun in a holster, gun butt across his belly. He wore thin, gray leather gloves. His bodyguard closed the door behind them.

“So there he is, Roger Verrick,” said Niall Quinn. “Big shot at Blume, huh? I’m guessing anyhow you’re the one in the monogrammed bathrobe.” There was something mocking in the way Quinn said virtually everything. A barely disguised contempt.

“Good to meet you at last, Quinn,” Verrick said smoothly. “How about a drink? What’ll you take?”

“I look like I’m going to drink anything but Irish whiskey? I’m old school, Verrick.”

“Bushmills?”

“Sure, onna rocks.”

Verrick made the drink. His bodyguard, keeping a close eye on Verrick’s men, came over to get the drink. Verrick handed it to the bodyguard, and he took it to Quinn.

“Thanks, Colin,” Quinn said. He looked around. “You know, Verrick, been a while now since we had a deal. Your man Tranter came to me. Said you wanted some kind of help here and there around town. He’d pay. I said I wanted something else. Needed someone not connected with me to take out that son of a bitch Pearce. I just make it a policy--anytime I can get some asshole clocked out without my name attached, I do it. Degrees of separation and all that, you know?”

“Sure,” Verrick said. He noticed that Quinn hadn’t taken off his gloves or coat. That meant he wasn’t planning to stay long. Which could mean a couple of different things. One of them had to do with overseeing a hit.

Verrick glanced at the Arab, the brighter of his two guards, and raised his eyebrows. The man caught the look and nodded slightly. Understanding that Verrick wanted him to stay alert.

Quinn sipped his drink, made one of those grunting
ah
sounds that people made over liquor sometimes, and went on, “So Tranter says he can take care of it. With your approval. You’ll pay the guy. Bing bang boom. But there’s no
boom.
I mean--you know--there’s a bang. But no boom. The dumb son of a bitch missed his target.”

“Stan Grampus was the son of a bitch in question. Yes. Close but no cigar.”
“And word is, Grampus is dead. Probable killer? Aiden Pearce! The same cocksucker Grampus was supposed to off! And who’s Aiden Pearce--he’s the guy who killed my father. I repeat--
my father,
Verrick!”

“Right. Understood.”

“Way I see it, Verrick, you either owe me some money--and some vig on top of that--or you owe me a clean-up. I want Pearce killed. Soon. Because we laundered a big fat pile of money for you--two piles, really, brought in two lots, piping hot from Somalia--and we gave you a lot of accommodation. We sent some of our Chunkies over there to help you out, on the South Side. What happened? Dead Chunkies, wasted personnel I can no longer use.”

“Not our fault if your men were not efficient.”

Quinn stared at him--then a red light seemed to shine in his blue eyes. He threw his glass at the wall to his left, where it shattered.

The two Graywaters stepped up, raising their guns.

“Hold your fire,” Verrick said.

“So my men were inefficient? You man was inefficient. Aiden Pearce is still alive!” He pointed a finger at Verrick. “And I haven’t heard a fucking word about you making this right!”

Verrick glanced at the brown splash on his wall. “You know, that was pretty rude.”

“You want to see rude?”

“One step forward, men,” Verrick said.

His mercenaries both took a step toward Quinn.

Quinn looked at the men, first one and then the other. “Look at that, Colin! See that military style these guys got? That’s Verrick’s military background! He was a major! And now he’s an important man at Blume! And he thinks he can threaten me!”

Verrick shook his head. “Just keeping my guard up. But don’t worry, Quinn. Everything’s going to get turned upside down in this town--and soon. I’ll be on top. And so will you--if you work with me. And Aiden Pearce? I’m looking for him right now. I’ll shoot him myself, if necessary. He’s going down. No extra charge.”

“What’s this turning upside down you’re talking about here?” Quinn demanded.

Verrick shrugged. He hadn’t told Quinn about Purity’s plans. Wouldn’t be prudent, as the elder George Bush used to say. “I’m just making some moves, is all. Business stuff. But believe me--Pearce is going down. Aiden Pearce will be smoked, dusted, snuffed. And soon. And as for Grampus screwing up--and the tone of this conversation...” He made a very slight bow. “I apologize. You’re the boss in this town now, Quinn. I haven’t forgotten it...”

Niall Quinn stared at him. “Then he sniffed and said. “I never forget it. And I don’t forget a debt. You see you take care of this--and soon.”

He turned and walked out the door. His bodyguard followed him, but backing toward the door.

When they were gone, Verrick fixed himself another drink, and washed down half an Oxy with it.

 He smiled to himself.

 
You’re the boss in this town now, Quinn...

For now. Just for now.

#

Blindfolded, Bullock was sitting on the sofa. They’d blindfolded him about a quarter-mile away, and made him lay on the floor so no one would call in a police report about it.

Now Wolfe sat turned toward Bullock, letting him wait in uncertainty for a minute. Seline, a gun in her hand, was standing nearby.

Finally, Wolfe removed the blindfold.

Their captive blinked at the safehouse room. He looked at the curtained and shuttered window. Licked his lips. Glanced at the door.

“There’s no way out of here except past me, Bullock,” Wolfe said. “And even if you could do that--then you’d have to get past
her.
And she’s actually scarier than I am.”

Seline nodded gravely, playing the part. “I am, really. I have some surgical saws in those drawers over there. I think, Wolfe, we should skip the bullshit and just gag him and get the saws out. There’s some plastic tarp we can put down on the floor.”

Bullock’s eyes widened. “Now wait a minute--”

“Bullock--the more I look at you,” Wolfe said musingly, “the more I feel I’ve seen you before. In person. Somewhere.”

Wolfe meant it. He couldn’t quite place the guy.

Bullock cleared his throat. “I was the General’s secretary. When you came in for your hearing. I was in uniform then.”

“Ah yes. You worked for Van Ness. And you still do. With Purity.”

Bullock’s face went blank. It was a careful, studied blankness. “Purity?”

“It’s okay, Bullock,” Seline said. “We know all about it.”

“I was there,” Wolfe said. “At the lodge on 77th Street. I heard Van Ness. I didn’t see you there. Chances were you were backstage. But I got a lot of information. And we got more through hacking. Now we can either dig the rest of the information out of you now, the way Seline suggested...I think I’d have to tie you up and leave, it makes me sick to watch that stuff...or we can turn you over to the Justice Department. Now, I know--that sounds better to you. But you’d still be facing years in prison. Because I am pretty sure I can convince them to hold you until after the attack...we know the attack is coming...and no way they’re going to let you go. They learned their lesson from the Boston Bombing, Bullock. They’ll hold you and they’ll tie you in with it and then it’ll be all about them trying to keep Van Ness and Verrick from trying to kill you in prison. But there’s a third option--I can call up Verrick and sell you to him. He was just trying to kill you--remember? How long do you think you’d last, without protection? So...”

“Wait, Wolfe!” Seline said, snapping her fingers. “We could do a combination of option one and three! We could slice him up, get the info, then sell whatever we have left of him to Verrick!”

Bullock groaned.
“Let’s call that option four, Seline,” Wolfe said. “There you have it, Bullock--those are the cards you’ve been dealt. How you going to play them?”

“You were there that night...” Bullock looked at him doubtfully.

“Yeah. I was there.
Socialism pops its ugly head up any time you don’t flush its holes out with poison.
Remember when Van Ness said that, Bullock?”

Bullock swallowed, blanching.

“And you remember there was a guy on the roof. And someone knocked him out and got in. One of the Graywaters went down...but the guy escaped.”

Bullock stared. “That was you!”

“Yes it was. I know about Purity. Your only hope is to tell me how the attack is going to happen. And then I won’t call up Verrick, and sell him to you. And I won’t give you to the Justice Department. Or...her.”

“And if I tell you, you’ll let me go?”

“I’ll get you to O’Hare. You can leave town. But if you talk to Verrick...I’ll talk to the Justice Department. If you don’t...you’ll go free. If I can confirm what you tell us.”

“I don’t know...”

“Would a drink help?” Seline asked.

“A drink? You mean liquor? No. I’m diabetic.”

“Crap. We’ll have to get insulin for him, Wolfe. I mean--if we keep him alive.”

“No, no,” Bullock muttered. “You won’t have to get insulin. I have an implanted insulin injector. There’s enough concentrate in its storage unit to keep me going for months.”

“Okay then,” Wolfe said. “Coffee?”

“Yes. Yes please...”

They reheated a cup of coffee--sick of instant, Seline had gotten a coffee maker and some good roast.

She brought Bullock the cup, and he stared at it. “You didn’t poison it, did you? Or put some kind of drug in it?”

“No, no, I didn’t. Here.” She took a sip and handed it back to him.

He sipped the coffee and then said, “Purity is...pretty big. It’s supported by a small group of billionaires--and people like Verrick. He invested most of the money he stole in Somalia in Purity, after he laundered it, he socked most of it into Iceberg.”

“What is Iceberg, just a shell company?” Wolfe asked.

Bullock hesitated. Then apparently decided to go whole-hog with the facts. “No. Iceberg...it’s called that because, you know, the tip of iceberg.” He put his coffee cup down on the small table in front of the sofa. “Iceberg is more than a shell company. It’s the organizing group for Purity, the financial group, the board of directors. Purity’s been around for decades, very hush-hush and all. A group of very rich families set it up. They’ve been stashing money for Purity for a long time. Billions! Some of them were invested in top oil and tech companies--and they did make a killing. That gave them funds to divert to Purity. You know--through Iceberg.”

“What’s their long-term plan?” Wolfe asked.

“It’s in several stages but essentially it’s a ‘from the inside out’ takeover. They’ve started it by ‘astroturfing’ media. Van Ness says controlling media is controlling mind; controlling access is controlling hope. ctOS can do that, once they take control of it completely. Hell, controlling ctOS can even be controlling money flow.”