Terminal Rage (35 page)

And even when he did figure out the connection, it only imparted a sense of legitimacy to what he was doing. After all, Egypt was an ally of the United States and a respectable regional player. Working for the Aswan Group, a company connected to the ruling family of that country, was hardly scandalous or sinful. These weren
’
t mobsters or terrorists. There was nothing ostensibly illegal about what he was doing. It was work for hire.

But as hard as he tried to justify things in a neat, tight moral box, Sam kept his wife in the dark about what this new project entailed. It was the first time since he and Angela had launched the company that he failed to disclose everything to her. He provided only scant details and blamed the need for secrecy on the thick nondisclosure agreement that Adly
’
s lawyers had made him sign.

But NDAs had never before stopped him from sharing intricate details of his work with his wife. No matter how much he tried to brush it aside, he knew what the problem was. Even if he wasn
’
t knowingly doing anything illegal, the less-than-kosher nature of Adly and his universe would cause Angela to worry, and ultimately put pressure on him to turn down the gig. And that was the last thing Sam wanted to do.

Whichever way he approached the matter, there was no ignoring the obscenely disproportionate money he would earn from this job. Money that would bring untold benefits to his personal life and the future of his company. Sam had calculated that what he would earn from Leviathan would catapult him at least six years into the future.

Leviathan was not even that complex for Sam to design, by any stretch of the imagination. Once he started building it, he found himself enjoying getting back to bare-bones programming. A welcome diversion from the mind-numbing tasks of managing a growing, medium-sized company.

Sitting across from Adly as he prepared to hand him over the final working version of Leviathan, Sam couldn’t help but think of the profound changes to his life this transaction would herald.

He pulled out a metallic hard drive from his laptop bag and handed it over to the Egyptian. “As you requested, I have removed the master password reset feature. Leviathan is ready for action now. But I need to remind you of three critical things.”

Adly put out his cigar and focused on him. “You have my full attention.”

Sam launched into a technical brief about the nuts and bolts of operating Leviathan. To initialize it, Adly needed to enter the exact addresses of the first five properties purchased by the Aswan Group in exactly the same sequence they were programmed in the system. Doing so would activate the security functions of the software. After that, these five addresses would serve as Leviathan
’
s password. Three failed attempts to access Leviathan would result in the software self-destructing for good.

“Please don
’
t write these five addresses on a post-it and stick it on your computer monitor.”

“What do you recommend, then?” Adly asked earnestly.

“Whoever will manage Leviathan on a day-to-day basis doesn
’
t need the passwords to enter data. However, if someone needs to retrieve information, that
’
s when the passwords will be required. My recommendation—learn them by heart. Then, print out two hard copies and store them somewhere secure, at two separate locations. If you lose the passwords, not even I will be able to retrieve the data stored in Leviathan.”

Adly involuntarily glanced to his right, where Sam knew a secret safe was camouflaged by a bookshelf. He had seen him opening it once through a tiny crack in the door while he waited outside in the reception chatting to Suzie.

“And the second thing?”

“There
’
s a built-in export function that will download all of the information in Leviathan as an open database file. If for any reason you decide to terminate Leviathan and want to extract the data, this is the function to use. But you can only do it once. Which means, if you ever have to use it, remember that doing so will also terminate Leviathan.”

“And the final thing?”

“You can back up Leviathan as many times as you need. But at any given time, only two versions can function concurrently. That
’
s it.”

Adly got up and circled around his desk to embrace him. “Wonderful, Sam, simply wonderful! You did it.”

“Well—we did it, Adly.”

“I
’
m eternally grateful, Sam. The final installment of your fee will be transferred to your Wells Fargo account later this afternoon. Check with your bank in a few days and let us know.”

Sam analyzed these words carefully. The excessive fee he had made on this gig and what that could possibly imply made him feel a little uncomfortable, now that it was all done. The real cost of building something like this for a regular client in the open market would be a mere fraction. But then again, this wasn
’
t the open market. And Adly and his employers weren
’
t regular clients. They hailed from another world, the rules of which Sam was unfamiliar with. And he
’
d done a damn fine job giving them what they asked for. His thoughts turned to the bright future ahead of him now, and he put aside any fleeting uneasiness about the job.

Adly tapped him on the shoulders. “It
’
s been a pleasure doing business with you, young man.”

“
All mine, Adly. We
’
ve had a hell of a ride.”

“Aren
’
t you glad I was persistent that day in Santa Monica?”

“Definitely.” Sam smiled broadly and strapped his laptop bag to his shoulders, ready to leave.

Adly sat down on the chair across from Sam, motioning for him to do the same.

“Sit down, Sam. We need to talk about the future. What
’
s on the horizon for you?” Adly tinkered with his lips.

Sam rolled his eyes in mock marital frustration as he sat down. “A summer holiday—if only Angela and I can agree where to go.”

“I see. Well let me throw another suggestion in the mix, if you allow me to.”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever been to the Red Sea town of Sharm El Sheikh?”

Sam remembered what Suzie had said about the surprise Adly had in store for him.

“I traveled extensively across Egypt with my parents when I was a teenager, but never to the Sinai. I know it
’
s spectacular, but try getting my wife to think outside the box.”

“I have been thinking quite a bit about a suitable gift for you and your family as a token of our appreciation for your outstanding work, Sam.”

“You
’
ve already paid me a senseless amount of money, so no gifts are required. Please.”

Adly relit his cigar and puffed a few circles in the air.

“On the contrary, you
’
ve gone beyond the call of duty to make Leviathan even more secure and powerful than we had envisaged. So listen to my suggestion and tell me what you think.”

Sam unstrapped his bag and nodded obediently.

“Of course.”

“My employers are connected to a luxury resort in Sharm El Sheikh called the Spring Roy. Familiar with the brand?”

Sam drifted in his mind to more exotic places. “Of course. A small but exquisite chain. I
’
ve stayed at the Spring Roy in Dubai and Bangkok.”

“So you know it—good. You and your family will be our guests at the Spring Roy Sharm El Sheikh for as long as you want. You will stay in the fabulous presidential suite with unobstructed views of the sea. It
’
s an architectural marvel, Sam, with its own child-friendly infinity pool. You will have a chef, a nanny for your kids, a private car with a driver, and a speed boat docked at the marina.”

“Wow! I
’
m speechless. When did you have in mind for this?”

“Suzie just checked, and the suite is booked by a Saudi Princess until the nineteenth of July. You can move in on the twentieth and stay there for as long as you want. All expenses courtesy of the Aswan Group. And we will of course take care of your first-class flights to get there. Your kids will love it, your wife will love you for it, and I guarantee you will have the time of your life as well.”

“Adly, this is way too much, man. How can I say no to such an offer? But—and I don
’
t want to sound in the least bit ungrateful—I
’
ll need a DC lobbying firm to get Angela to consider this. So I can
’
t confirm just yet.”

“We
’
ll fly you through Europe and you can stay a couple of days in her favorite city. London, Paris, or Rome. She can shop to her heart
’
s content.”

“I really don
’
t know what to say, Adly. On my part, I graciously accept this unbelievably generous gift, and I am sure Angela will be very grateful. Let me check with her and let you know.”

Adly had a resolute glaze in his eyes that reminded Sam of when he had first met this old fox. It wasn
’
t quite the mad look, but it wasn
’
t too far either.

“Don
’
t check with her, Sam. Just tell her it
’
s been decided. You are the man in the family, right? Or does Angela call the shots, and you trail behind?”

He let out a high-pitched cackle from the depth of his belly that took Sam by surprise. As if it had come from another person Sam had never met.

“You are all going to spend the summer of your lives in the crown jewel of the Red Sea. And remember, I never take no for an answer.”

THIRTY

Thursday, November 29, 2012—7:25 p.m.
London, UK

H
e buttoned his grey coat tight, adjusted his hat, and emerged from the Sloane Square underground station to trudge back to his Chelsea apartment. Yet another day in London with nothing but his bleak future weighing heavily on his mind.

A gush of cold air penetrated his bones and made him curse the weather under his breath in Arabic, “
Yakhi kos om da gaw khara
!” He preferred warmer climates, but these days choices were a rare commodity for him.

Fortunately, with his British citizenship, and his relative insignificance in the larger scheme of things, his country of origin hadn
’
t sought to extradite him. Yet. Britain was the safest place for him while they fried bigger fish.

But once the Egyptian military rulers had gone through the top of the food chain, it was only a matter of time before they pounced on people like him, who had done the dirty work for the country
’
s former masters and kept their darkest secrets. And when the true nature of his crimes became known, Interpol would come after him and he would be cornered in London like a rat in a blocked sewer with nowhere to hide. Britain could very well ignore the lack
of extradition treaties with Egypt and hand him over as a token of goodwill, based purely on the amount of blood he had on his hands.

Not a day passed when he didn
’
t explore his few remaining exile options. Buying a passport in a Caribbean country. Striking an unholy deal with a Gulf state. Or smuggling arms for an African tyrant, then disappearing under their protection in the dark continent. The tricks of his trade and the millions he had skimmed could keep him safe for a while. Peace of mind for his remaining days on earth, however, would be more elusive.

Now that the Mubarak Empire had imploded, Adly Sarhan was running extremely short of friends. And no amount of money or cunning can keep you alive if you don
’
t have the right sort of friends looking out for you.

Christmas lights installed along the posh Kings Road that cut through the heart of Chelsea raised his spirits momentarily. It took his mind off the cold, damp London winter and back to the city that beats them all when it comes to Christmas magic—New York. The last time he called Manhattan home was more than six years ago, and it had been a whole two years since he set foot on the island. That reminder alone dampened his mood again.

After the Sharm El Sheikh attack in 2005, Adly had been ordered to disappear. Suzy Greiss was fired and the office left unattended, used only as a treasure trove for the wealth laundered by the US-based corporate fronts owned by his bosses. Balmoral Westwood and the Aswan Group.

For a while, Adly
’
s role was reduced to making deposits or withdrawals from the New York office in the dead of the night. But even that eventually ended.

Shortly after power had changed hands in Egypt, he received coded instructions from his bosses behind bars to avoid at all costs being seen at the Manhattan office again. It was only a matter of time before the international community would start hunting for the billions of dollars laundered under Mubarak. And someone like Adly, who was clearly connected to them, was now a huge liability.

Not long after, Adly was officially cut off. His monthly retainer wired to his offshore account stopped. No more coded instructions delivered to his Hamburg safe house. No more suitcases of cash or gold to deliver somewhere across the globe. And no more assassinations. How he missed the assassinations.

The fall of the Mubaraks left him unemployed, but still a very wealthy man. But the backstabber in him couldn
’
t resist plotting to profit from their demise. To grab whatever he could from the assets he
’
d once controlled on their behalf. Leviathan, his brainchild, was topmost on his mind. The thought of all those orphaned properties waiting to be scooped was near sexually arousing for him.

One of the copies of the five passcodes required to access Leviathan was stored in the safe in New York. The other was with his former boss at a location never disclosed to Adly. Leviathan was actually a drop in the bucket compared to the real billions they had siphoned and stashed across the globe. Numbered accounts in Switzerland. Warehouses chock-full of gold bullion in Cyprus. Millions of acres of prime agricultural land in Sub-Saharan Africa. Infinite business interests and ownerships in as many countries. And these were just the things Adly knew about. Leviathan however was within his reach. After all, it was his brainchild.

When he had first flirted with the idea of slipping into the New York office and looting Leviathan and whatever else he could get
his hands on, he was certain his building pass had been revoked. But he had checked online, and remarkably, it was still valid for two more years. The quick turn of events leading to the downfall of Mubarak had left them little time to worry about destroying the New York nest, he assumed.

He set a plan in motion. Leviathan had one export function, which he would use to prevent anyone else with another copy from reaping the wealth it held. Slowly and from behind the scenes, he would liquidate the assets and divide the wealth among his five children as his lasting legacy.

The plan was almost too good to be true. And it was.

Adly had eyes and ears everywhere. It was how he operated. Paid informers who fed him vital information on matters of interest to him. Small-time government employees. Cops struggling to make ends meet and looking to earn a little extra on the side. And pretty much anyone willing to sell the information Adly was in the market to buy.

Exactly one year ago, a mid-level security staff at 200 Park Avenue had called him and tipped him that the building had been besieged and the safe in his former office pillaged. Either his former bosses had beaten him to it, which would explain why they hadn
’
t bothered revoking his building pass, or someone else on the inside had the same idea. Adly wasn
’
t sure which explanation was more crushing.

Not that he hadn
’
t skimmed enough money over the years. But it was an obsession—that
’
s what it came down to. Adly had developed a fixation to impart immense wealth to his children so they would never have to walk in his shoes and do the dirty work of other people. A seismic and poetic change of events is what he sought. The stolen money of his masters would change hands and create a new caste of top men.

His grandiose dreams of empire-making were all devastated with that one phone call he received from New York, and replaced with a more primary need. A quest for survival and to avoid a long prison sentence. Or worse, execution.

Tantalizing aromas of charcoal-grilled chicken and lamb shawarma reminded Adly of the sorry state of his fridge. He made a quick stop at Al Dar, the local Lebanese eatery on the high street, to buy a few wraps for dinner. When he’d first moved to Chelsea, he ignored the restaurant staff’s attempts to speak to him in Arabic, and pretended he was Turkish. He always tipped them well, but wasn’t interested in developing a chat routine. The sandwich-maker packed some extra bags of fresh pita bread and a tub of crisp cucumber pickles, then wished Adly a good night. In Turkish.

Outside his apartment building on Draycott Place, his cold fingers struggled to fish out his keys from his coat pocket. He laid the plastic bag with his dinner on the doorstep, removed his gloves, and rubbed his hands vigorously to restore life and function to them. Then he took out his keys and turned the key in the lock.

Once he was inside the building, he stood there for a minute to thaw in the warmth of the indoors. The light in the hallway was on. Someone must have walked in seconds earlier and activated the motion sensors.

Adly had kept to himself since he bought the apartment eight months ago. The building had been renovated—the only one on the street stripped of its Victorian identity. There were five floors, each with two apartments. The woman who lived in the unit next to him was an attractive middle-aged Estonian, plump just the way he liked them. Friendly enough and possibly easy, but Adly, who had to keep a low profile, refrained from unleashing his charm offensive on her. If anyone asked, he was a Turkish engineer working for a German petrochemical multinational. Quite possibly the dullest history he could fabricate to kill any interest in prying into his dark life.

But deep loneliness had set in. To protect his children, he had severed ties with them and vanished from their lives. And he
’
d done the same with the three women he
’
d frequented in as many cities, not to shield them, but because he couldn
’
t trust them. Which is why these days he yearned for some meaningful companionship to take the edge off this grey, alienating city. At least something beyond the fleeting encounters with the odd Lebanese or Moroccan hookers he picked up on Edgware Road.

He went to retrieve his mail, but his box was empty. When he
’
d left the apartment in the morning, there were already two bills from Virgin Media and British Gas, which he
’
d forgotten to collect the day before. And surely there must have been something for him in today
’
s mail, even junk. Another tenant must have picked them up by mistake.

Adly exited the elevator on the third floor to find himself in pitch darkness. A few waves with his hand in the air failed to activate the light. Struggling in the dark to find the right key, he glanced at his neighbor
’
s apartment.

Usually at this time of the night, the chubby Estonian would be listening to Queen or Abba, but it was all quiet in there. Maybe she was out. Or perhaps she had picked someone up from a bar or a club and they were quietly fucking under a soft duvet. Some lucky guy suckling on those ample bosoms and mounting her Rubenesque figure. As he conjured that image, the notion of eating greasy shawarma wraps on his own, and watching Al-Jazeera rehashing exactly how much shit had hit the fan in his part of the world, felt even more pathetic than it probably was.

Inside his apartment, the amber night lights were dim.

What
’
s going on here?

He flicked the corridor light switch repeatedly, then stopped when he decided a burned-out fuse must have caused a blackout on the entire floor. Which could explain why the Estonian wasn
’
t listening to her music.

Before he could reach into his back pocket for his mobile phone to call the building manager, a sudden burst of foul-smelling chemicals slapped him in the face.

Dry mouth. Gritty eyes. Nagging pain shooting from his eye sockets to the back of his head. An industrial lamp with a blinding light hung from the ceiling.

Where am I?

If he
’
d hit his head in the dark they sure as hell hadn
’
t taken him to a hospital. The ceilings and walls were metallic. No windows. Like a shipping container or a warehouse.

A rancid, nauseating taste lingered in his mouth, like fermented mushrooms. An unmistakable funk of cow manure now registering made him want to hurl even more.

He tried to get up or turn away from the light, but he was lying flat and his hands tied. The only thing he could move was his head, which he raised slightly only to notice he was completely naked.

Adly couldn
’
t even wiggle his toes or lift his legs. His entire body from the waist downwards was out of commission.

Something was horribly wrong.

Then, when he saw a drip with a tube hanging on a metal pole next to him, connected to his back, Adly
’
s stomach lurched and his heart started pounding erratically.

Shit.

This is what they must have felt like. The men and women his bosses had unleashed him on to viciously destroy their lives. Respectable people cowering at his feet, the fear of God in their eyes as if they had stumbled on evil personified. Begging. Screaming. Making promises. Offering money. Their bodies. Anything to avoid the inevitable.

Adly had always known this day would come. He
’
d sold his soul to the devil a long time ago. It was only a matter of time before his turn came up. Judgement day.

But who was it that had finally hunted him down?

There was an endless number of people who would want him terminated. Top of that list were his bosses.

In his thirty years as their servant, he
’
d never once seen them dispense loyalty as a fringe benefit. Not even to him, their top assassin and chief mover of their sullied money. Working for them, he
’
d terminated their business competitors with ruthless precision. Erased political opponents who dared challenge their patriarch. Even murdered in cold blood their lovers and mistresses who knew more than they should or expected more than they deserved.

And if it wasn
’
t his bosses, there were countless enemies his masters had trampled on. His entire country was seething under years of oppression, with millions of people with sufficient motive to annihilate him, even if only for his guilt by association.