Headcount: v5 Page 6

  “All-American State Insurance.”

  “Thank you, sir. Hold on for just a moment.”

  “Thanks.”

  After holding on for almost five minutes, I was getting impatient. What, were they trying to trace my call? And so what if they did? Even if they had a way to get around the caller ID block, all they’d get would be a phone number with a New York mobile area code. My number was unlisted, and relatively new. They wouldn’t find out anything about me. After another couple of minutes I checked my newly purchased website logs and noticed that the site had been visited in the last few minutes. So they had checked out my website. Big deal. That’s why I set up the damn thing.

  Finally a man’s voice came through over the phone. He sounded vaguely British, but who knows these days.

  “Mr. Smith? Good evening. I understand you were referred to us by Mr. Wesley at All-American State?”

  I gulped. “Well, no. I wouldn’t say it was a referral. And I don’t know a Mr. Wesley. I have a friend from b-school who works in their investment management department. He told me about you guys. He also asked me not to mention his name. Something about confidentiality. You know how it is with these big companies.”

  There was a pause and then the man continued. “Er, yes. Of course. No problem. How can I help?”

  “Well, our fund-of-funds is just starting up. We have almost three hundred million in capital, and we’re researching placement opportunities.”

  “I see. Well, we’re not really open to new investors right now. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll make sure someone calls you if something does open up.”

  “Sure. But in the meantime, would you be able to tell me a bit about your fund? Or perhaps there’s a prospectus or literature that talks about your investment strategy?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. You’re in the industry, so you can understand that the details of our strategies are proprietary. All I can tell you is that we invest solely in sovereign debt, and we actively rebalance our portfolios based on our own research as to the relative creditworthiness of our target nations.”

  “Yeah, I get it. You guys are trading in and out of emerging market debt? Or other high-yield stuff—Russia, Greece?” I knew that hedge fund people were secretive, but it was worth a shot to see if he’d talk. Some people just can’t help talking about themselves and what they do. Unfortunately, this guy wasn’t one of them.

  “Good day, Mr. Smith.” He hung up.

  I sighed and shook my head. John Smith. Could I not have come up with something better than that? Now what would I do? I knew nothing. And I’d already used up any potential sources of information by not being prepared when I spoke to them. I leaned back in the cushioned office chair. Now what?

  Wesley. The guy from MacroResearch had asked me if I knew Wesley. He had mentioned Wesley. So he knew Wesley by name, if not face. Wasn’t that meaningful?

  I shrugged. Perhaps, but only if I could figure out the problem with these funds. They seemed to be as legit as any other fund. The secrecy wasn’t unusual. The people answering the phones didn’t sound like stereotypical Jihadis, although I know there’s no such thing as a stereotypical Jihadi these days.

  Then it hit me.

  I leaned forward and typed a few words into my web browser. I looked at the list of countries that came up. Two were at the top of the list. I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Mo’s number.

  “Hey, Mo. I’ve figured it out.”

  “I don’t have much time now, Frank. Go ahead.”

  “The funds are buying the debt of rogue states.”

  “Go on.”

  “Countries like Iran and Sudan. They’ve figured out how to get around the US sanctions on these countries, and are buying the treasuries that these nations are issuing. Because of the sanctions, these countries are starved for capital, and so they're happy to pay very high rates to anyone willing to lend them money. So that's it. These hedge funds are essentially facilitating loans for Iran and Sudan and other blacklisted regimes via the All-American State Insurance Company.”

  “Good job, Frank. How did you get to that answer?”

  I smiled. I wanted to say that she just gave me the answer. I was only guessing. I didn’t really know. But I didn’t say that. “A gentleman never reveals his secrets.”

  “Um, I don’t think that’s a thing.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, you’re right. These three funds are channeling billions of dollars a year into Iran, Sudan, and several other countries that aren’t even official nations. And since hedge funds don’t have to reveal their strategies or investments to even their clients, there’s no easy way to figure it out. Or even a legal way to stop it, really, since these funds have complex international corporate structures that are more or less legit. But legal or not, it’s wrong.”

  I nodded. “I guess it is a bit sick that when an American pays her home insurance premium, part of it is passed on as a loan to an authoritarian regime which can use it to buy weapons or attack US interests. And since so many of All-American’s customers are from army families, in some way parents could be unwittingly lending money to people that are trying to kill their kids.”

  “Yes. And the insurance company profits from the interest paid on the loan.”

  “But the hedge fund gets a management fee for investing the money for the insurance company. They’re essentially setting up the transaction. They’re the bad guys, not All-American. You just said that All-American probably doesn’t even know where the money is going.” I spoke fast as I thought of Mr. Wesley. No way did he deserve to get killed. “For all they know, MacroResearch and the others are just buying the treasury securities issued by friendly European or Asian countries.”

  Mo was quiet for a few moments. Then she spoke. “Do you have the names of the All-American managers that made the calls to invest in these funds?”

  I thought for a second. “Mo, it doesn’t matter. They aren’t the ones responsible.”

  “I asked you a question. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  I bit my lip hard. “Wesley.”

  “Then you know what to do. So do it.”

  “No way in hell.”

  “This isn’t a choice. I’m not sure if you’re suddenly feeling safer because you’re in Illinois and I’m in California, but remember: your only choice is between this and death row in Texas.”

  “But I thought you were going to check it out first and only then give me the final go-ahead.” I was trying to delay the deed.

  “Consider this conversation the go-ahead.”

  “So you already knew it was Wesley? Or are you just not going to get him checked out through your super-secret assassin information network?” I was pissed.

  “Just get it done, Frank. You have two days before the police break down your door and hand you a one-way ticket to Texas. So just get it done.”

  ELEVEN

  I felt like kicking myself for not recording the end of that conversation. I would’ve had her, or at least had something on her. She didn't quite say she had killed Simone, but she came close. Note to self: record every future conversation with Mo.

  But wait, I could do that now, couldn’t I? Just call her back and get her to say something incriminating. I scrambled to find a mobile phone app that allowed me to record the conversation to a digital file. I tested it out, and then I called Mo back.

  “What is it, Frank? Done already?”

  “No. I won’t do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you mean, ‘okay’?”

  “I mean okay. Don’t do it. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it. I mean, you still have the two days, but that’s it for now.”

  Dammit. She was smarter than me. I didn’t say another word. I just hung up. I slammed shut the lid of my laptop and shoved it into my bag. Then I left and went back to the hotel and ordered the salmon. I ate and watched
a little TV.

  Finally, I grabbed the hotel stationery and began to make a list of options.

  1—Stab

  2—Strangle

  3—Push from height

  4—Car accident

  5—Club

  I stared at the surreal list I had just written out. I was glad it was on paper. Anything that takes electronic form these days is bound to live forever. This would be a tough blogpost to explain.

  Accident sounded good, and since you don’t hear of many stabbing or clubbing accidents, car accident was the best option. It also seemed the most hands-off. Of course, I didn’t know shit about car engines or brake lines or any of that stuff. I’d lived in Manhattan for over a decade now. All I knew about cars was how to hail one on Amsterdam Avenue. Sure, I had driven rentals for years when on out-of-town jobs, but those years of business travel had only taught me how to call the rental car office and ask for a new car to be driven out to me because mine seemed to have a flat.

  I could look up some information on the web, but I didn’t want my browsing history filled with sites describing how to cut someone’s brake lines or loosen the axle or whatever else you do to cause a fatal car crash.

  Clubbing was out. No way I was smashing poor Mr. Wesley’s head with a baseball bat or something. Plus, it’d be loud and messy.

  Strangling would mean no blood, but that’s cold. Staring into someone’s eyes as you squeeze the life out of him? Nope, I wasn’t at that level of psycho just yet.

  Pushing from a height sounded easy. Everyone knows that when you fall from a tall building or something, you’re dead before you hit the ground. Of course, I’m not sure exactly how we all know that—the only people who could confirm that are dead, right? I thought about All-American’s office building. No, that wouldn’t work. It was a classic suburban office building, wider than it was tall. All-American had only four floors. That’s vegetable height, meaning you’re more likely to be paralyzed than killed. And paralyzed people can still identify the bastard that pushed them. No, that wouldn’t work. Besides, the windows didn’t open, and there was no roof. Same thing with my hotel.

  So we were back to the knife. I’d have to stab Wesley. But it would still be noisy and messy. Unless I drugged him first. That was it—knock him out somehow, and then just stab him.

  That made me think of another option: poison. If I could drug him, then I could poison him, right? But with what? Rat poison? Liquid Plumber? Sleeping pills? I didn’t want to look up poisons on the web, either.

  Goddamn it. You’d think Mo would have sent me to a training session or something. Maybe I should just ask her, I thought. It was still early in California. I turned on my recording application and called.

  “Hey.”

  “Yes, Frank.”

  “How should I kill him?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. How should I murder Wesley?”

  “That’s an insane question. Call me when you’re sober.”

  She hung up. I shouted in frustration. I wasn’t sure before, but I was now: she had guessed I was recording the conversations, which meant I’d lost access to the only person who could give me useful advice. I really was on my own now.

  I smoked another cigarette in my non-smoking room. Then I slipped under the covers, turned off the light, and let my subconscious think about how I would commit my first murder.

  TWELVE

  I woke up with the answer. Somehow it made me feel at peace, and I bounced out of bed and got ready for work. I drank my skim latte and checked the morning’s e-mails with a lightness that I hadn’t experienced in what seemed like a long time now. I was at the office before nine.

  “Good morning, Frank. How’re you today?”

  I swiveled my chair around and looked up. It was Wesley. “Morning, Mr. Wesley.”

  Wesley smiled. “I’ve told you guys to call me Tim. You consultants are so formal. I guess that’s partly why your rates are so high.” He seemed to think he had made a joke, and he laughed with glee.

  I stared at him. I should kill him just for that. I smiled and shook my head. I really was a monster.

  Wesley continued. “What if I called you Mr. Stein? Or Mr. Frank Stein.” He paused. “Hey. Oh my god, I just got it—Frank Stein! Tell me you have a middle initial. Is it—”

  “No. I don’t have a middle initial.” I smiled and made it a point to enunciate the next word. “Tim.” I looked him in the eye. This joker was going down.

  “Sorry, you must get that a lot,” said Wesley. “But it is funny. Especially for a consultant to have that name.”

  I sighed. “You know, Mary Shelley’s monster actually didn’t have a name.”

  “Oh my, the monster can read!” Wesley made some ridiculous gestures with his hands and then danced off to his office.

  I shook my head and almost smiled. Thanks for making this easier on me, Wesley, I thought.

  I wasn’t going to make my move until about eleven. At around ten I hit the restroom and then scoped out the area. First I took a stroll down the hall and located the one fire alarm that wasn’t covered by a camera. Then I took the stairs down to have a smoke, double-checking that there were no cameras in the actual stairwells, and taking special note of the unusual height and steepness of each set of steps. I was back at my desk by ten-thirty, and then I just sat and waited.

  I thought back to the fire drill that we had all been forced to participate in during my first week at All-American. I had noticed that Wesley was the fire marshal for the entire wing. I had also noticed that he had emerged from the stairs almost fifteen minutes after the last person had been evacuated. Part of his duties must have been to check that no one was still up there. These memories had been buzzing in my head when I woke up, and it had all come together in a neat little plan involving option three: PUSH FROM HEIGHT.

  I figured that even if falling down the first flight of stairs didn’t kill Wesley, it would at least immobilize him. Then I could just roll him down the next set. If that didn’t work either, I’d have to hit his head against the edge of a step a few times to finish it. That last thought make me feel weak, but I told myself it wouldn’t come to that. Regardless, it would look like an accident. All I had to do was make sure I was the last one into the stairwell. I was also counting on the fact that Wesley wouldn’t take the full fifteen minutes to search the floor before heading for the stairs. After all, this was a real alarm, so the fire department would get there pretty quickly. Hopefully the timing would work and the firemen wouldn’t walk in on me bashing poor Wesley’s head against the second floor landing or something. I gulped and took a deep breath. Think positive, I told myself.

  I looked at my computer screen and saw that it was almost time. Eleven in the morning is the one time of the day when almost everyone is actually sitting at his or her desk. It’s that wonderfully productive time when the morning coffee has already worked its way through the system and lunch is just far enough away that you’re not already getting ready for it. It would be my best shot for pulling the fire alarm without anyone seeing me.

  I walked back out into the hallway and looked around. There was no one. I wrapped a piece of toilet paper around my fingers and quickly walked to the fire alarm and yanked hard on it. At first there was nothing, and I froze. Then I heard the bells go off and those big lights along the hallways started to flash. I got back to the main work area just in time to see Wesley dash out of his office and start to direct people to the stairwell. I noticed my colleagues walking in my direction, and I turned and ducked into the men’s room. The men’s room was empty, which was good, because I immediately went to a stall and threw up all over the toilet seat.

  I waited in the stall for what seemed like forever, but was only three minutes according to the clock on my cell phone. Everything was quiet, and I knew it was time. If Wesley was doing a check, then I couldn’t let him catch me in the restroom. I had to get to the stairs first, and undetected.

  After slowly
pushing open the door and making sure I was still alone, I jogged to the stairwell. Yes, I was probably caught on film, but my actions were quite explainable. Not that anyone would ask—it would be a simple case of Wesley slipping and breaking his neck or whatever on the stairs.

  When I got to the stairwell, I froze again. I was too close now. Soon there would be no turning back. Once it started, it would have to be finished. I listened for sirens, and exhaled when I didn’t hear any. I leaned up flat against the wall near the door and got ready. I didn’t want to push too hard; just enough so that he fell. The more steps he hit, the better, right?

  Now the door opened and I saw a hand on the door knob. It was Wesley. He stepped out into the landing without noticing me. Incredibly, he stood at the top of the stairs and checked his phone. It looked like he had been timing himself or something. I stepped forward and went up behind him.

  And of course I stopped. I couldn’t do it. Wesley didn’t deserve to die. And I wasn’t ready to kill. I sighed and then I cleared my throat.

  Wesley shrieked and jumped up in the air. Then he cried out again as he lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs.

  THIRTEEN

  My mind performed decision-related calculations at record speed as I raced down the stairs after Wesley. He was bleeding from his nose and lip, but he seemed all right. I helped him to his feet, and we slowly made our way down to the landing between floors.

  I’m not sure why I started questioning him, but I did. “Mr. Wesley, do you remember making investments in MacroResearch, Charter Capital, and NationFirst?”

  “Sorry, what?” Wesley slurred as his lip bloated up.

  “They invest in sovereign debt. Do you remember investing in these funds?”

  “What? Why . . . why are you asking me this now?”

  “Just want to keep you talking so you don’t pass out before we make it downstairs. Come on, Mr. Wesley. I mean Tim. Answer the questions and don’t look at the stairs. Lean on me.” I stared at the long bumpy drop from the landing down to the third floor. I could still do it. I thought about what Mo had told me—there were people half my age committing murder on my behalf. Was I going to step up and take responsibility for my choices? All I had to do was let this guy drop. It was almost an obligation. Maybe my earlier hesitation had been a blessing in disguise. I had forgotten that it was important to let Wesley know why he was being killed. He needed to know why the violence had tracked him down and entered his life, why it was ending his life.