Naked Ambition. Dan Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ your table,” said the hostess with a slight bow. “You want drink?” she asked haltingly.

      He could have used a whiskey sour but said, “Just water for now, thanks!” Maybe a stiff drink later, he thought.

      “Lemon?” asked the Asian lady with a pleasant smile.

      “Yes, please.”

      The hostess turned and walked out of the dining room, leaving the man with the soggy Italian shoes sitting alone. That, however, was for only a few moments for it was no more than a minute later that a rather large, bald-headed man—a well-muscled man—of Asian origin stepped through the portal. Of average height, he was dressed in a nondescript black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. He stopped and stood by the entry doorway, looking like a soldier guarding something or someone of importance. He was soon followed by another man, less Asian in appearance, who entered the room briskly, with an air of authority. Unlike his predecessor, the second man was rather tall and slim to the point of being wiry. The man, probably in his late 40s, was casually dressed, wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and tan slacks. As if entering a stage with determination, his pace was quick and solid as he made his way toward the table and the awaiting man.

      The man in the silk jacket started to get up from his seat but was stopped from doing so by the Asian man who spoke only one word, said firmly, as if he was spitting it out: “Sit!” It was said as a command. Obeying, the now half-seated man in the silk jacket quickly resumed his previous position.

      Without any pleasantry whatsoever, the casually-dressed man pulled out a chair and sat down. He then scooted the chair closer to the table as he looked directly into the eyes of the man across from him. In a not-so-calm voice, he said in perfect English, “You’re a real screw-up, you know that?”

      The cold look in the Asian man’s face coupled with the anger in his voice, surprised the taller man. The words ‘screw-up’ were followed by ‘fucked-up’ and ‘asshole.’ Like a slap in the face, those words, said so directly and bluntly, brought to him the stark reality of his situation, one which produced a sense of vulnerability. For just a moment, the man in the silk jacket felt pathetically weak—physically and emotionally. It was then that he responded with humility and heartfelt sincerity. Leaning slightly forward, he said quietly, “Mr. Chen, I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

      Chen’s face showed no sign of softening as he said, “Not as sorry as you’re going to be if you don’t do as we had agreed.” With that, Chen began to tell the man across from him just what he had to do to correct his ‘screw up.’ In addition, Mr. Chen, in no uncertain terms, told the taller man what the repercussions would be if he didn’t do exactly as instructed.

      “Do I make myself clear?” asked Chen as his dark eyes targeted the eyes of the man seated on the other side of the table.

      “Yes, sir. Totally clear, sir,” was the response.

      For Chen, there was no need for more words. So, without excusing himself, he pushed back his chair, stood up and walked away from the table. What happened then was the reverse of the earlier scenario: Chen quickly disappeared through the doorway, followed by the well-muscled man in the black suit. At that point the only person left in the room was the tall man dressed in a silk jacket and wet Italian shoes, wearing a solemn expression on his face.

      It wasn’t long until the man with the rain-soaked shoes, seeing no need to stay, got up from his chair and walked to the entry door of The Rose. As he looked through the glass, out onto the parking lot, he noticed that the rain had mostly stopped. After retrieving his umbrella from the stand, he felt there was little need for it. Besides, he thought, what difference do a few more drops of rain make at this point?

      With shoulders slightly hunched against the elements of the night, the man pushed on the door and walked briskly toward his car. Because of the dim light, he didn’t notice anything different. At least, not at first. However, once he was within a few feet of his Porsche, he stopped. And gasped. His shoulders dropped when he saw that something was indeed different. His shoulders sagged even more when, upon closer examination, he saw the dented fenders and doors, the broken side windows and mirrors and the long slit cut in the convertible top. Immediately, he looked up and around. From the left to the right he scanned the parking lot for movement. He saw no one. Looking once again at his ruined sport car, the man stood in the drizzle, alone with his thoughts which could be summed up in the one word he muttered to himself: “Fuck!”

      WEDNESDAY

      WEEK ONE

      DAY 5

      THE CLOCK NEAR THE ELEVATOR showed 7:30, early for Larson to be at the office. He had come into the building yawning, feeling like he could have used another hour of sleep. As he walked down the hall at his usual slow pace, he did so with a to-go cup of coffee in one hand and his briefcase strap slung over his shoulder. He nodded and said “Good morning” to several young ladies as he passed them in the hall. He gave a little nod and an extra wide grin to the new secretary from the forensics division. When he finally got to his cubicle he placed the briefcase on the floor, sat down and took a swig of coffee as he turned on his computer. The flat screen was just flashing to life when his cell phone rang. The ID tagged the caller as DAVIS, TOM.

      “Hi, Tom. What’s up?”

      “Hi, Joe. You on your way to work?”

      “Just got to my desk. Why?”

      “So, did you get the case? You know, the one we talked about yesterday?”

      Larson, raising his head so that he could see over the cubicle wall, looked around before answering that question. Seeing that no one was close by he quietly said, “Yes. In fact, a group of our agents were briefed on the case by your man, Ron Selleck, yesterday afternoon right after I got back from seeing you.”

      Larson went on to tell Davis that the FBI was convinced that the seller had direct links with M/X Technologies. The challenge was to find out who the seller was and try to catch them before they compromised the project any further. “It’s called ArrowStar, Tom. It’s a very advanced missile-guidance system according to DON documents.”

      He then told the FBI agent about how there was to be coordination between agencies and a designation of responsibilities. “The Bureau and NCIS will work together on the case, but the FBI will hand off the ‘seller’ end of the investigation to NCIS for us to follow up with. The Bureau will continue to maintain surveillance on the Russians and will share any further information received regarding ArrowStar with NCIS. And, as NCIS gains insight into the person involved from M/X, we’ll share that and any other pertinent information with the FBI.”

      “Sounds good,” said Davis with a sigh of relief. “I’m really glad you’re on board.”

      “Thanks, I guess,” was Larson’s reply. “So is that why you called?”

      “Well, obviously, I was curious as to what was happening with the case. But I also wanted to update you on what’s going on with me… to let you know that I reported to my supervisor when I got back to the office after seeing you. I told him all that I told you yesterday. Just wanted to make that clear with you. I’m not holding any information back.”

      “And how did that pan out?”

      “As I assumed, I was taken off the case because of conflict of interest.”

      “Too СКАЧАТЬ