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  She wished her superiors in the DEA were of a similar mind. When she had put forward her thoughts on the conflict having been orchestrated by another group, Samuels had been instantly dismissive. In the unlikely event Tuur was reliable, he argued, ignoring the corroboration of all the facts, then all it proved was that the Kosovars had hired him. The fake travel documents were meaningless. He had insisted that she drop it as a line of enquiry and dedicate herself to preparing dossiers on a number of suspected ex-KLA members living in Chicago and Detroit. That had been the final straw, which resulted in her doing what she had tried to avoid for so long.

  She had stormed into Marshall’s office, confronted him with her suspicions about TAIT being merely a tool for political appeasement and accused him of leading her on. She insisted, in light of the lack of support he had shown her and the wasteful way in which Samuels was utilising her, that she be let pursue the orchestration theory. The grandstand play had been a huge gamble, Marshall might very easily have been outraged. But, whether because of his chagrin at being presented with what was the obvious truth or some other reason, it had worked. He ordered Samuels to free her from all other assignments and provide her with any support she needed. She doubted she would get any real help from Samuels but was content with being freed to do something she believed in.

  “Just out of interest, if there were a third party, who would you favour as the most obvious candidates?” Hughes asked. “Presumably another large player in the drugs market, one of the Russian or Chinese syndicates?”

  “They’re potentials but I have serious doubts that an established group would have taken the risks.”

  “Because?”

  “Well, and this was why I first started having problems with the Kosovars as instigators of the conflict, all of the major players’ cash-flows have taken a hammering. Surely they could have predicted the anarchy that’s resulted?”

  “Could it have been intended as a long-term strategy, something worth the damage for the ultimate gains?”

  “Maybe,” she said, “but what I think is more likely, is a smaller group who want to destabilise things, create an opportunity for themselves and exploit it.”

  “A possible variation on that is a subset within either the Alliance or the Fifteen Families who wants to grasp control and sees discrediting the current leadership, through creating this crisis, as their route.”

  “That’s another of the less far-fetched options.”

  “How far-fetched do they get?” he asked.

  “A terrorist initiative, possibly state-backed, designed to break down the social order of the consumer countries. One of the pharmaceutical giants stands to gain massively if drugs are decriminalised, so they associate insurmountable problems with policing it.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Speculating on motivation is useless at this point, with so little to go on! To progress this, a lot more hard facts are necessary.”

  “Okay, I’ll contact you as soon as we start turning stuff up.” He stood up, signalling the meeting was over. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  As they were saying goodbye in reception, he stopped. “Alan Hopkins?” he asked.

  She was taken off guard by the question and hesitated a second before saying yes. She wondered how he knew her ex-husband.

  “I’ve met Alan a bit in the course of my work. He’s organised a few functions and attended several meeting on behalf of the Cuban-American lobby,” he said, guessing her thoughts. Her expression was one of bemusement. “I’m sorry, I just made the connection and blurted it out before I realised. Foot-in-mouth syndrome! I hope –”

  “No, no, don’t worry about it. You just took me by surprise. Alan and I split eight years ago when he was only starting out as a lobbyist. We’re still friends. I see him about once a month.” She wondered why she had added that. “I’m surprised, though, that he mentioned me.”

  “I can’t remember how it came up, but that’s hardly surprising. Some of the receptions we go to can be so tedious, you’ll happily discuss anything non-work related. I recalled him mentioning his ex-wife worked for the DEA. Again, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no problem, really. Well, thanks for your time today. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  She heard someone approach and stopped what she was doing, swivelling around in her chair. Anderson, one of the junior agents, stood there holding a cardboard box that looked as if the bottom was about to give way.

  “This just came for you. Shall I leave it here?” He indicated a clear space on her desk.

  “Sure, thanks.”

  These were the files Hughes had promised her yesterday evening. They contained the listing and associated dossiers of operatives whose profiles made them the likeliest candidates for involvement in the attacks on the Alliance. The other item he had promised to look at, the re-examination of the station reports in and around specific incidents, had drawn a blank. Mesi had been disappointed and said it only proved how much care these people had taken, but Hughes had refused to leave it at that. He had initiated a series of interviews with the CIA’s station personnel and their sources throughout the relevant countries. Between that substantial undertaking and the sheer volume of information contained in these files, Mesi was overwhelmed by his thoroughness and application.

  After their first meeting, having learnt that Hughes knew Alan, she had called her ex-husband to get his opinion of the CIA man. Alan had told her that Hughes did not have the highest profile but seemed to be generally well liked. Popularity wasn’t something normally associated with a man in his line of work but the times Alan had needed something from him, he had been totally engaging. She followed up her chat with Alan by calling one of her colleagues who had worked with Hughes on a number of inter-Agency initiatives involving Latin America. Apparently Hughes had been considered quite special in his formative years and destined for great things before his upward career trajectory levelled off fairly unspectacularly. The general impression of Hughes, her colleague added, was that he was a nice guy but he might lack the stomach for some of the harder, necessary, decisions Agency work entailed. Now, he did an adequate job co-ordinating the Central and South American station chiefs and was not called upon to leave his moral comfort zone.

  Well, she thought, regardless of what others might see as Hughes’ shortcomings, he had been outstanding in coming through for her so far.

  He had enclosed a covering note with the listing, suggesting they could work through it in parallel. While he was trying to get up-to-date information on the operatives he had identified, she could contact the various police agencies responsible for investigating the attacks. Perhaps one of operatives had crossed the authorities’ radar. He knew it was a long shot but this kind of time-consuming, sequential work was the only avenue open to them.

  Nothing else she had done since returning from France had resulted in any headway and she was thankful for something to apply herself to. Any feeling of progress would be welcome. Before contacting investigating officers like Campas, though, she thought it might be more useful to get in touch with Julian Girard. If Tuur recognised any of these operatives as the man called Lorcy then it would represent a huge step forward. She checked her watch and, after quickly calculating the time in France, placed the call.

  “Agent Mesi,” answered the voice.

  The grave tone differed so much from her recollection of Girard that she immediately asked what was wrong.

  “I assume you’re calling in relation to Richard?” he replied.

  “Yes, I’d like you to show him some photographs and ask him if he recognises anyone.”

  “That’s impossible, I’m afraid. He was found dead early this morning.”

  She felt a tremor run through her. “How?”

  “The preliminary report indicates suicide.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Frankly, I’m not sure. I left Richard yesterday evening in an apartment, under the watch of four police officers. He seemed happy, much happier than
when you saw him. The hardest part was behind him; he had cooperated fully. Within a matter of days we would have had him established with a new identity, something he appeared to be looking forward to.”

  “How was he found?”

  “He usually woke very early to go for a walk but his guards thought he was having a lie-in. When I arrived shortly after ten and he still hadn’t surfaced, I went to his bedroom to wake him. His wrists had been slashed. There were no signs of a struggle.”

  “It’s strange that if he was going to kill himself he would do it at this stage.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he agreed. “I got to know Richard quite well over the past month. Based on his service record and my own impression, I find this hard to believe. The only time I saw him express any doubt or fear was when we discussed this Lorcy and even then it was nothing I’d have thought would drive him to suicide. Still, who knows what was going through his mind?”

  Girard promised to send her a copy of the final report as soon as it was ready and, sensing he wanted to get off the call, she wrapped it up. Afterwards, she tried to decide what the news meant. If Tuur really had killed himself, it had no significance and even if someone else was responsible, there was nothing there she could use to bolster her theory. Samuels’ attitude would be that the Kosovars were merely tying up loose ends. Tuur’s death had not changed anything other than to make things a little more difficult.

  Reaching into the box, she retrieved the listing and the first handful of files.

  Lawrence Wallace finished the call and switched off his cell phone. Once again he checked his watch then strode to within a few feet of the edge and felt himself being buffeted by the heavy winds. The building had been completed as far as the fifty-fifth storey and where he stood now, on the eightieth floor, there was only a bare structure. The views of the Chicago skyline, which the offices on this level would afford when the construction was completed, were breathtaking. The building would be wholly owned by Diversified Holdings, who would occupy the top fifteen floors and lease the rest. It would be a symbol of the pinnacle of corporate America, a physical manifestation of power and proof of influence. The impotence Wallace currently felt could hardly have rendered it less appropriate.

  Earlier he had watched a news broadcast detailing the aftermath of a riot that had exploded in one of the city’s deprived neighbourhoods. It had only lasted a few hours but the damage to property was substantial. The reporter had said that police felt the riot had been spontaneous and had sparked a few isolated incidents of looting in broad daylight. A local politician had warned of the growing number of addicts who had been priced out of the drug market. Due to scarcity of supply, prices had rocketed and people were being forced to go to desperate lengths. Some analysts were calling for government intervention to set up treatment programmes in the worst-hit cities.

  The call he had just completed had been to authorise the release of more funds to the string of rehabilitation clinics he was financing. At the moment they were struggling to cope with the surge in demand. Staff morale had plummeted and some key personnel had resigned. Including this latest round of funding, the clinics had already accounted for twice the original budget and he doubted it would end there.

  Despite his best efforts, he was anxious about this meeting.

  He knew that the stance he intended to take would be difficult and he would come under pressure. He wasn’t used to being in any position but total control. Normally when he entered a room, no matter how many others were present, he invariably became its focus, without ever having to try. It was just the natural order. A combination of more than forty years of calling the shots and a habit of not straying beyond his own select circles ensured others gravitated towards him. Despite his lack of celebrity, Wallace was recognised for what he was among his associates: a king. There were other names to describe individuals who wielded so much influence: movers and shakers, captains of industry, but the regal title fit best. After all, there was virtually no limit to what he and the small number of genuine peers could do if they wanted.

  He wondered how much of where he found himself was due to hubris.

  He had been born seventy years earlier, no more than a few miles from where he now stood. His father had been a baker desperate to continue the tradition of ensuring the next generation moved that little bit further up the ladder. He remembered the old man’s pride when he had graduated from college. Pride and something else. Fulfilment. When his father had died a few months later, he knew the old man had been content.

  He doubted he’d ever experience that sense of contentment. The best he hoped for now was to make up some of the deficit.

  After graduation he had initially worked as a manager in the automobile industry but quickly realised real success for him lay in another direction. His greatest talent was a remarkable ability for analysis. He could effortlessly break down the most complex of systems, processes and practices.

  He also had a need to control his own future. The ideal application for this lay in strategic consultancy, advising businesses on how they could eliminate inherent weaknesses and optimise revenues. It had been slow going at first; it took time for the young Wallace to build up his credibility. But within four years he was employing more than thirty bright young business minds and had a host of blue-chip clients. Eventually, the mere announcement of their retention as advisors was enough to elevate an ailing firm’s share price. Within the business circles in which he operated Wallace garnered a reputation bordering on mystical. His advocates boasted there was no situation or problem that was beyond him.

  Much of his success had come down to picking his battles and recognising the right opportunity. A perfect example was Wallace Consulting being one of the first to recognise the potential for cross-pollination that consultancy offered. If his auditing division identified a shortcoming in a company, their professional services division could fill the gap. Similarly, though, Wallace had been the first to recognise the inherent conflict of interest and curb these questionable practices. This prescience guaranteed his was virtually the only company among the large consultancy houses to avoid lawsuits and a hugely devalued balance sheet. Wallace had displayed the same flair for judgement when he had taken defensive positions avoiding various technology and investment bubbles by divesting while others continued to rush in.

  He worried now, though, that in his latest venture he had been too late in recognising the signs.

  Despite his undoubted skill, luck had also played a part in building Wallace’s eleven-figure personal fortune. In the late seventies, he had been approached by a consortium of white-collar executives who wanted to buy out the failing airline they worked for. Recognising the limitless potential for their intended low-fare, point-to-point strategy, he identified key weaknesses in their plan, amended it and took a major stake by funding the buyout. The airline was now one of the most successful carriers in the US, its share price having risen year on year for more than two decades.

  After that, he had amended his own business strategy. More and more they entered into partnerships where they took equity in businesses he believed had potential but, either through liquidity issues or bad management, had faltered. A new entity, Diversified Holdings, was founded to oversee these investments and would eventually come to hold interests in over 300 fields of industry at last count – cosmetics, food production, alternative energy, pharmaceuticals and countless others. Yet, despite being one of the US economy’s powerhouses, the multinational worked consciously to reduce its mainstream profile. Wallace’s own name had been deliberately pushed to the background while the company’s partners and subsidiaries were encouraged to develop their own brands and corporate identities. This strategy had ensured Wallace retained a large degree of anonymity despite the power he wielded.

  And it had been this influence that had led him to believe he could succeed in his latest venture. Just another problem in need of a solution, he had told himself.

  Quite a f
ew of the companies they held interests in were engaged in one of the most lucrative business of all: war. In addition to the forty or so arms manufacturers, there were some firms specialising in the provision of military personnel on a contract basis. Until a few years ago, they had held no special significance to him, nothing more than financial items on a consolidated profit and loss statement. That had changed, however, when he had conceived his strategy. He had realised that one of these firms would provide him with the “in” he needed and he had started to examine them more closely. One company soon emerged to stand out from the others.

  Really, it was the company’s CEO, Andrew Brewer, whose history and contacts marked him out. Wallace had orchestrated several supposedly chance meetings to sound out Brewer, and then, convinced as he could be of the man’s expertise and discretion, he had gambled. It had been a huge risk, approaching Brewer and outlining his plan. At first it seemed as if he had made a mistake. Weeks went by with no response and Wallace had worried that he had fallen at the first hurdle. Then Brewer contacted him with his suggestions on how they should proceed.

  Which had ultimately resulted in him waiting here.

  He heard the lift groan to a halt behind him and the door being opened. When he turned around, Larsen stepped out of the lift and scanned the area.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Wallace said, trying to inject confidence into his voice.

  Larsen walked past Wallace and for a second it looked as if he was going to step into mid-air. At the last moment he stopped at the very edge of the structure and sat down on his haunches, balancing on the balls of his feet hundreds of feet above the ground. The powerful gusts appeared to cause him no alarm. Just the sight of him balancing there was unsettling to Wallace.

  “So, we’re cleared for the next stage?” Larsen asked.

  “We need to talk.”

  Larsen stood up and faced him.

  Brewer was the normal conduit between the two of them but at the outset, as a way of ensuring too much control did not lie with the middleman, the two of them had agreed a protocol consisting of periodic face-to-face meetings. These occurred at significant junctures and up to now had consisted of Wallace simply rubber-stamping the major decisions to that point and giving the green-light to continue.