The Lights of Tenth Street

  He set a file folder down a little too hard. “Don’t threaten me, chief. If you’ll just calm down, you’ll realize that we’ll make more money if we don’t take such a big loss on this deal for the next three quarters. Especially since the risk is so high and we’re in such a vulnerable stage ourselves.”

  Doug listened to another diatribe and tried to unclench his jaw. His boss was going to give him a heart attack at the age of thirty-two. He broke in when Jordan’s cell phone crackled, forcing Jordan to pause.

  “Chief, I’ll do everything I can to present it in the best possible light. I’ve got all the glowing revenue projections and the nice little color pie charts and graphs you wanted. But at the end of the day, they’re going to ask for my honest opinion, and I’m going to have to give it. There’s no guarantee all those big revenue projections will ever materialize. And if they don’t, we’re going to be out of business.”

  Jordan started to say something, but Doug forestalled him. “Since you’re the majority owner now, I would think you’d have an incentive to listen to me.” He forced himself to laugh, adopting a joking tone. “I don’t know why you’re holding on to this so tight, chief. You’re like a dog with a bone, man. You’ve got to let it go.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

  When Jordan spoke again, his manner was stiff. He thanked Doug for his advice and hung up. Doug slowly put down the phone and wondered if his life span at the company was about to be drastically shortened.

  “So what’s our first target?” Tyson put down his pen, sat back in his chair, and opened the floor for suggestions.

  He and the others were spaced around a butcher-block table in the villa’s expansive kitchen; papers, beer bottles, and coffee mugs littering every conceivable surface around them. The windows were shut against the cool breezes of the night, and flames flickered over gas logs in a nearby fireplace.

  It was decision time.

  The numbers had come in, the small group had convened in the islands, and the prospects were now identified.

  Tyson stared around the circle, watching the firelight flickering on the hardened faces. He knew what they were thinking. No one wanted to be the first to step into the fray. Every suggestion had a consequence—an effect on a city, a military troop, a piece of infrastructure—and everyone knew that someone’s extended family, someone’s acquaintances, would end up being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  They had taken to calling themselves the Security Group—S-Group for short. None of them gave a rip that their decisions would mean the opposite of homeland security. They existed to create and then exploit the system’s weaknesses. Once these deals went through, they’d be able to live for the rest of their lives down in these islands, immune to any wreckage at home. Besides it was all part of the inevitable cycle of destruction and rebirth. It was what made the economy grow, what capitalism was made of, what had increased American productivity during and after every war. The current system was broken, corrupt, choked by overzealous regulators of every stripe. It was time for a return to pure capitalism; survival of the fittest. Sure, there would be a few years of pain, but the nation would bounce back stronger for it. And it wasn’t as if someone else couldn’t come up with the same idea as they. If others were going to get rich, too, they figured they might as well get in on the action.

  Sherry grabbed a roll of paper towels and mopped frantically at the kitchen table, which was a better option than strangling her son. She swept aside the neatly organized stacks of mail on the tabletop, trying to contain the spreading grape juice spill—perilously close to her checkbook and the expense reports she’d just spent an hour compiling.

  Brandon was running around the kitchen with Blake Woodward, oblivious to the nightmare he’d just created. They had grabbed two flashlights and were stampeding out the door before Sherry trusted herself to speak.

  “Brandon, Blake, grab a towel and come back here!”

  They kept running, giving no sign that they had heard her. A door slammed as the two headed out into the dark.

  Ring! … Ring! …

  Sherry growled in exasperation and looked at the phone, which kept ringing. She pressed the speakerphone button with her elbow and went to dump the sopping paper towels in the garbage.

  “Whoever you are, hold on a second!” A moment later, she was back, cleaning her hands on another towel. “Sorry. Who is this please?”

  “It’s Lisa.” There was a pause. “It sounds like you’re having quite a day.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I won’t keep you then, but listen—were you all coming to home group on Friday?”

  “I think so. Both of us have really enjoyed the last few weeks.” She grimaced. “Well, after Doug forgave me for being so insensitive that night. We’ve enjoyed getting to know everyone.”

  “It’s mutual, you know. Well, if you’re going to be there, why don’t you all come over for dinner ahead of time? It’ll just be salad and pizza, but we’d love to have you.”

  “It’s a deal.” Sherry felt a genuine smile rising on her face. “That would be fun.”

  “See you Friday then.”

  “Okay.” Sherry started to say good-bye, and then gave a strangled laugh. “Oh, and Lisa—”

  “Yes?”

  “Despite the craziness, I want you to know that I did still have my hour-long prayer time today … just in case you were wondering.”

  “Me? Wondering?” Lisa laughed outright. “That’s great to hear. Imagine how you’d be today if you hadn’t had your cup filled this morning!”

  By the time Doug left the office, Jordan had returned none of his calls or e-mails. Jordan was working at his home office most of the day, so Doug knew he was choosing to ignore his chief financial officer. Not a good sign.

  As Doug drove away, he replayed the tense conversation over and over again. It got worse each time. The phone was slammed down instead of simply hung up, and Jordan’s quiet anger became vengeful fury. Doug’s mind began to turn with memories of previous employees Jordan had fired—sometimes on trumped-up excuses simply because they didn’t get along.

  Doug pulled into his driveway and stared at his dream home. Would they be forced to downsize just because he insisted on telling the board the truth? What would Sherry say? He knew he and his family weren’t materialistic—at least not too badly—but Sherry loved their beautiful home. They probably didn’t have enough savings; they really needed to scale back their budget. Once the kids were in bed, he’d better go look through their expenses and see what they could cut.

  He pushed open the kitchen door. Sherry was sitting stiffly at the table, surrounded by bills and papers. She got up and gave him a swift kiss, her body tense.

  The kids came running, stampeding through the room, hollering. Sherry jerked around and hurried to the table to protect her work. Doug gave a private sigh when he noticed that Blake was in the mix. He liked Blake a lot, but on this night he would have preferred a calm home. He gave all the kids—including Blake—a hug, trying to hide his anxiety They immediately started telling him about their day, talking over one another, their words competing for dad’s attention.

  “Quiet!”

  The kids swung around to see Sherry standing by the table, her hands raised for silence. She pointed at the basement door.

  “Downstairs! Now.”

  The kids trooped out, their faces disappointed.

  Doug and Sherry stared at each other for a minute, then Sherry frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Oh …” Doug forced a laugh. “One of those days.”

  “Was preparing for the board meeting tough?”

  Doug stretched his neck, hoping she’d just drop it. “Yeah, you could say that.”

  She stepped closer, staring into his face, her manner challenging.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Why did she always have to make like the Grand Inquisitor when he’d had a ha
rd day?

  “Well … I told Jordan that I’m going to have to give the board my true opinion tomorrow. I think they’ll probably reject the deal. Jordan’s furious. He didn’t return my phone calls all day.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Well, you know what you’re doing. Jordan isn’t a numbers guy; that’s why he needs you. He’s just going to have to realize that you’re right and he’s wrong.”

  So glad you know how to handle my irrational boss.

  “Did you tell him he was wrong?”

  Talk about a dog with a bone …

  “I tried to, Sherry, but he didn’t want to hear it. Remember, he wouldn’t return my calls.”

  “Well, how unprofessional is that?” Sherry put her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe him sometimes. He just gets a bee in his bonnet and won’t listen to reason. Well, you just remind him that you’ve been working seventy-hour weeks to make this deal work—at the expense of time with your family—and that you’ve done everything he’s asked you to do. I can’t believe he’d be mad at you after all you’ve done for him!”

  “I—”

  “And another thing. You know the finances inside and out, and he’s just going to have to stop micromanaging the company and trust you to have a clue what you’re doing. You’re just going to have to stand up to him.”

  “I’m not sure that—”

  “That’s why he made you the CFO after all, isn’t it? Didn’t Jordan himself tell you last year that you’d saved the company a boatload of money on bad deals? Didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “And the board trusts you, right? I mean, they specifically kept you in place when Jordan took over the company after his brother died. I bet they’ll be glad that you’re telling them the truth, rather than being a yes-man! Somebody has to look out for the interests of the company’s investors, if Jordan isn’t.”

  “Sherry.”

  “What?”

  “Can we not talk about this right now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It feels like you’re attacking me.”

  Sherry’s face reddened. “I’m not attacking you, I’m furious at Jordan. He—”

  “I don’t have the energy to fight right now.”

  “But I’m not fighting you. I’m mad for you!”

  Doug closed his eyes. “I need to go chill for a while. I’m going to go watch the news.”

  “But—”

  Doug shook his head. “Please, Sherry.”

  “Fine.” Sherry began moving the piles of paper off the table, her motions jerky. “Go watch TV. Dinner’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sherry watched Doug disappear into the den, her emotions roiling.

  Why did he never want to talk about these things? Why was he always shutting her out? She wasn’t stupid—she had a Harvard degree, too! She could see what was going on at the company, and had had it up to here with Jordan. The nice house and the cars weren’t worth it. She wouldn’t mind if Doug transferred to another job tomorrow. She just wanted her husband back—her fun loving, kind, generous husband who tossed the kids in the air when he came home and gave her a big kiss.

  The man who came home these days was tense and worried, and kept things inside.

  She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of spaghetti, tears leaking down her cheeks. She loved her husband, but what had happened to their fun, their little touches of love? They shared a house, shared a bed, but she hardly knew what was going on in his head anymore. Why would he never share it with her? Didn’t he love her anymore?

  Late that night, Doug lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He’d been unable to sleep over the sound of Sherry sniffling next to him. He knew she’d been crying, and felt helpless to know how to fix it. He knew he was at fault somehow, but didn’t know what he’d done or how to change it back.

  He had tried to move to her side of the bed, to stroke her hair, to run his hand over her back, but she had stiffened. He had retreated, hurt and confused.

  Now she was asleep, and he was staring at the ceiling at one-thirty in the morning. The board meeting loomed like a large dead-end in the morning. He tried to pray, but his thoughts felt like lead.

  He slipped out of bed, put on a sweatshirt, and closed the bedroom door behind him. A long bonus room downstairs had been converted to a home office the week they had moved in. He closed the French doors behind him.

  Within minutes he was looking at a spreadsheet of the family’s expenses, and wincing.

  He went online to look at the last few months of credit card bills and shook his head. Why did Sherry feel the need to buy all this stuff with his hard-earned money? They were going to have to have a long, hard talk in the morning.

  He still wasn’t tired.

  A small, buried thought kept trying to rise up, and Doug kept pushing it down. It knocked again, and finally got to the surface.

  You’re all alone, and everyone is asleep …

  His stomach twisted in anticipation. He typed in a Web address, almost shaking when he heard the music, saw the first pictures. He quickly entered a credit card number. One of his credit cards; a bill that Sherry never opened.

  He was all alone, and everyone was asleep.

  The website was flooded with credit card numbers; tens of thousands a night. Each time a customer paid with plastic, a signal was routed to the credit card company.

  But they also went somewhere else; a large prewar building in Atlanta staffed with a trusted team of analysts. Every transaction was captured and analyzed. Possible targets were profiled, reports compiled. It was tedious work, but every now and then there was an immediate payoff.

  An analyst’s computer chimed as several transactions came in, one right after the other. With a yawn, he opened the necessary screen, looked at the most recent transactions, and sat up straight. He looked again and called his supervisor over.

  There were two credit cards listed: one was from a satellite engineer in the Washington, D.C., suburbs; the other was from Doug Turner. Both were on-line at that moment.

  The supervisor smiled and picked up the phone. Sometimes, people just made it too easy.

  Down in the islands, Tyson listened for a moment, a satisfied smile on his face. He clicked his phone shut and looked at the others, then pointed at the short list on the table in front of him.

  “Well, we got two of our targets again tonight. We’re now over 50 percent of our first target list. Since we have redundancies built in, I’d say we pull the trigger and get started. The timings perfect.”

  One of the older men nodded. “I agree. We can alter the plan as we go, if a necessary piece is absent. We need to start bringing in cash flow now.” His face was hard. “And there are many other means of achieving our objective, if simple persuasion is ineffective.”

  Tyson shook his head. “Maybe later. Other methods are likely to draw attention and suspicion. We must not trigger any profiling or any law enforcement activity, or our best customer prospects will disappear. The whole point of these operations is that because they are being set up under the radar, using domestic resources, that they will be a complete surprise.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Then what happens if one of our targets refuses? Will that send a whole project down the drain?”

  “Maybe not down the drain, but we might have to move to a different project for a while.” Tyson held up a sheaf of paper. “Look, you’ve seen the list. Any customer would pay big money for any one of these projects; very few will care which one is actually triggered.”

  “And when is your big meeting with our first prospect?”

  “Tomorrow at noon. They’re flying in as we speak, using a regular courier run to the islands as cover. They need to be out by the usual departure time of five o’clock so as not to arouse suspicion. You never know who’s watching.”

  “If someone could be watching, how will you be abl
e to meet with them without drawing attention to you?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll find out tomorrow.” Tyson shrugged. “Proxy set the whole thing up. He put out the feelers and got the bite. He assured me it’s been worked out.”

  There were a couple of raised eyebrows around the table, but nobody disagreed. Proxy’s track record was almost perfect. It had become natural for these hardened operatives to place complete trust in someone they didn’t know, and had never actually seen.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Doug rose in the morning, his eyes heavy with lack of sleep. Not a great way to go into the board meeting.

  A parade of images from the dark hours accompanied him as he found his robe and pulled on a pair of slippers. He feebly tried to push them away, and headed downstairs for coffee.

  Sherry was already in the kitchen, busy around the coffeepot. She turned when he walked in and gave him a long hug.

  “I’m sorry.” She rested her head on his chest. Her voice was soft. “I’m so sorry I made you upset last night. I didn’t mean to be confrontational … I just get so mad at those guys sometimes. I’m so proud of you, and I just want them to appreciate what they have in you.”

  She gave him another squeeze, then looked up into his face. “I know you’ll do the right thing at the board meeting today.” She smiled and turned back to the coffeepot.

  Doug straightened. He should tell her that he might be fired, should ask her advice. It wasn’t fair to her otherwise. He stepped toward her and opened his mouth.

  She turned from the countertop, two steaming mugs in hand. “So, sweetheart, how’d you sleep? I noticed that you’d gone downstairs.”

  “How’d you know I went downstairs?”

  She gave him a curious look. “Well, you weren’t upstairs and I assumed you were catching up on some work in your office.”

  “Oh—right. Actually, not just work but looking at our family budget. That kind of thing. Bank statements on-line; you know. All that stuff.”

  It was getting late. He needed to get a shower and get on the road. He took a few sips from the coffee mug and escaped up the stairs.