The Gauntlet Assassin (21 page)

Paul caught the elevator upstairs and thought about stopping in Camille’s office to say good morning. Would that be too much? He wanted to be careful and not scare her off by being too clingy too soon. Especially in their workspace. He instinctively understood that he needed to reel her in slowly, one date at a time, while he simultaneously transformed himself into someone more physically attractive. Paul patted his stomach. Down eighteen pounds.

At his desk, he dove right into a new task, checking every line of code and every entry as he went along. He’d vowed to never again give his bitchy boss a reason to criticize him. For now, he’d set aside the idea of trying to find a replacement for Stacia, because the mission was too close to home. He hadn’t given up, he just planned to take his time and find a foolproof way that couldn’t be traced to him.

At noon, he turned away from his NetCom, took a MetaboSlim, and retrieved his chicken salad sandwich from its thermal bag. The salty aroma reminded him of the tuna sandwiches Isabel used to make for him as a kid. The ache of her loss threatened to burst his happy bubble, so Paul pushed it aside.

He reached for his Dock and opened the novel he was reading, a sci-fi political thriller, but he couldn’t concentrate. He burned with the need to contact Camille, to reassure himself their relationship was real. He tapped open the message folder on the Dock and sent a text to Camille’s personal number. He kept it short and non-needy.
I had a great time last night.—Paul.

A few minutes later, Camille stepped into his office and closed the door. Paul put down his lunchtime pleasures, concerned by her serious expression. “Hello, Camille.”

“I have to talk to you about this situation.”

He waited, heart quivering with the fear of rejection.

“We have to keep our relationship private and not let others at work know about it.”

Paul let out a tiny sigh. She’d called it a
relationship
. “I understand.”

“That means you shouldn’t text me at work, even on my private number.” She slunk into the guest chair and kept her voice low. “Nothing about our behavior in this building should change. No one can know about the time we spend together outside of work. We have to be professional.”

Paul went along, trying to sound levelheaded and sincere. “You’re right. We don’t want to risk our jobs.”

“I’m so glad you understand.” Her relief was palpable.

It pierced his heart. “I do hope we can see each other again.”

“We will. I enjoyed our time together too.” Camille clutched her purse and stood. “I have an errand to run on my lunch hour, so I’ve got to go.”

Paul started to suggest they see a movie sometime, then held back. “See you at the Monday meeting.”

After she left, Paul played back the conversation, trying to evaluate the subtleties. Camille had implied they would spend more time together, so she must like him a little, he thought. He knew she was right about keeping their relationship from co-workers, but he also worried she was embarrassed to be seen with him. He could change that, though. A chin implant would make a world of difference. He’d looked at before-and-after photos online. Even female actresses made themselves more beautiful by extending their chins. He would win Camille over—he just had to be patient.

By mid-afternoon, Paul’s right leg vibrated under the desk, his mind drifted from his task, and he felt irritable. The restless leg syndrome was new in the last few days, and he wondered if the symptom was related to his diet. He hated to think his jitteriness was connected to the pills because they were working well.

He took his afternoon break early and walked around the block. The cold wind was relentless, and he felt like he’d run a mile by the time he arrived back in his office. At five, he shifted out of his software maintenance task and opened the replacement database. Because of Olbert’s threat to report him, Paul had no choice but to abandon the beleaguered Robert Morales in the DOE. If Olbert had followed through, federal agents might be watching for anything suspicious that might happen to DOE employees. Paul decided to start over and look for a new position to target. He needed to make one more arrangement to pay for a chin implant, then he would stay out of the database.

But first, he had something personal to take care of. He keyed in
employment commissioner
and waited for the names to come up. He scanned the details of the three replacements and decided Lisa Hutchinson was the least qualified. She’d been president of a teacher’s union back when unions still existed, and now she was a freelance labor arbitrator. Paul worked up his nerve and deleted her files. Uploading Camille’s information took a little longer, but not much. Now his girlfriend was on a list to replace the commissioner should something unexpected happen to him. Paul couldn’t wait to tell Camille. Yet he knew he should wait. This was a gift she desperately wanted and the timing could be critical. He would save it for the next time she kissed him and it just might get him laid.

After forty irritating minutes of keying in search words and scanning personal information, Paul finally found a possibility. Allen Brentwood worked for the Department of Transportation, which had been consolidated into three small units that regulated trains, planes, and cars. Brentwood was the director of the vehicle and road safety administration. What first caught Paul’s attention was Brentwood’s performance reviews. The last one had unsatisfactory ratings in seven out of ten categories, and the one before it was only marginally better. The DOT secretary had to be looking for an excuse to fire him. The other interesting factor was that Brentwood belonged to the gym Paul had joined, so Paul had access to him.

Paul checked the replacement database. All three candidates were men and Paul had to rule out two. One already had a Level C position, and one was Brentwood’s assistant. Paul settled on Terrance Kettering, a man with degrees in engineering and business, who’d been unemployed for a while.

Paul left work at six, spent an hour in the cold looking for a street vendor who sold prepaid iComs, then finally took the bus to a shop in the mall. With his merchandise in his pocket, he caught a bus home. On the ride, he watched the snow and had second thoughts. What if Olbert had reported him? Had they launched an investigation? Was he being watched?

Paul shivered, then scolded himself for being paranoid. The possibility was remote. Law enforcement budgets were a fraction of what they used to be, and unless violence or major theft was the issue, most crimes were given cursory investigations, and prosecutors only went after suspects with evidence against them. His little missions were small-time and under the radar.

Still, Paul promised himself it would be the last arrangement and he would be more careful this time. He would only ask for fifteen thousand and demand it all up front. That way he’d only have to conduct one cash transfer, cutting the risk and stress in half. The money would be enough for his chin implant, which now felt essential. The surgery would radically improve his appearance and his chance of a sexual relationship with Camille. The thought of an intimate encounter gave him an idea for how he would get Brentwood fired.

At home that evening, Paul sat down at his NetCom and in a matter of hours, learned everything he ever wanted to know about Allen Brentwood. The man was a networking fool and shared his daily movements with the world on Scoop, a phenomenon Paul had never understood.

It didn’t take much effort to discover that Brentwood went to the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays after work and soaked in the hot tub after his workout. Paul would be at the gym next week and would snap a quiet photo or two of Brentwood showing some skin. Then he’d send the images to a young woman who worked in Brentwood’s department. Paul would also hack into the man’s WorldChat page and post the skin photos there, maybe with some outrageous unpatriotic statements. Even without a history of unfavorable performance reviews, it might be enough to force his resignation.

Paul shut off the unit and got Lilly ready for a quick trip outside. He was relieved this mission would be easy. Now all he had to do was sell the position to Terrance Kettering and make an appointment for his chin surgery.

Chapter 25

March 14, 6:55 a.m.

Paul couldn’t stop staring at himself in the mirror. The swelling in his chin was down and he’d gone back to work yesterday after recovering over the weekend. Inserting an implant was not nearly as traumatic as removing attached tissue, the aesthetic surgeon had explained. Paul turned his head and admired his new profile. He loved the definition! Why had he waited so long to do this? Why didn’t everybody with a recessed chin do this?

The $13,350 cost came to mind. Paul felt sorry for people without the means to pay for it. Procedures like this one could transform a person’s life, opening up career and relationship opportunities that had never existed before. He felt like a new person and couldn’t wait to show off his improved profile. It occurred to him that he might eventually find a better job for himself. There was nothing wrong with software management, but he’d entered the field because it was a behind-the-scenes position, and he’d assumed his homely looks wouldn’t work against him in employment interviews.

He ate breakfast and dressed for work, stopping occasionally to run his finger along the scar in the soft tissue under his new chin. Such a small incision, such a huge improvement.

“Tonight’s the night,” he said to Lilly as he took her out for her morning stretch. “How can Camille say no to this face?”

The afternoon dragged by as Paul grew more excited—and anxious—about his evening plans. He and Camille had been to dinner several times and once to a movie, but she hadn’t allowed him to go much farther than kissing and touching. She said she wanted them to take things slowly and get to know each other before committing to a sexual relationship. Paul understood and was trying to be patient, but they were both in their thirties and life was short.

His message center flashed and Paul tapped it open. Stacia’s face appeared. “Will you come to my office please? There’s someone here to see you.” She clicked off before he could respond.

Paul’s heart fluttered as he imagined possible scenarios. Was this about the replacement database? He pushed out of his chair and glanced around his office. Should he bring his briefcase? Would he be fired or arrested?

His last mission had gone smoothly. Terrance Kettering had paid up front without any shenanigans, Brentwood had resigned under pressure, and with a little push from Paul, Kettering had landed the position. Brentwood claimed he’d been hacked and framed, but no one believed him.
Was it all a sting? Had he been the one to be set up?

Paul willed himself to be calm. He picked up his Dock and strolled down the hall, running into Camille, who was just heading back to her office. “Hey, Camille.”

“Hello, Paul.” She examined his chin as he stepped closer. “You look terrific.” She kept her voice low and her hands at her sides.

“Thanks. I love it.” He wanted to talk about the procedure but this was not the time or place. “Did you just come from Stacia’s office?”

“Yes. Someone from the FBI is asking about access to employee records. Are you headed in there?”

The FBI. Oh dear god.
“Should I be nervous?”

She gave a devious little grin. “That depends on what you’ve been up to.”

Paul tried to come up with a joke, but his throat was dry. “Wish me luck. I’ll see you tonight.”

The black-suited man in Stacia’s office had a boyish look, round-faced and chubby. Paul relaxed a little.

“This is Agent Franklin with the FBI,” Camille said. “He’s here asking about the federal employee databases we have the privilege of maintaining.”

Paul nodded. “How can I help you?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

“In the last five months, two federal employees have claimed their message systems were hacked and a saboteur sent fraudulent messages in their names. We’re looking into it.” Franklin shifted forward, unwedging himself from the narrow chair. “You’re one of ten people in this office who has access to personnel files. Have you noticed any irregularities?”

“No, I haven’t.” Paul resisted the urge to embellish.

Franklin gave him a piercing look. “Have you ever sent any phony messages, even as a joke?”

“Never.” Paul forced himself to meet the agent’s eyes. “I take the privacy and security issues I’m trusted with very seriously.”

“Do you have any idea who might send sexually implicit messages?”

“No one I work with here would do anything like that.”

Stacia added, “I’ll also vouch for everyone in my department.”

Agent Franklin glanced at Paul. “I’ll run a program that will screen the personnel databases for irregularities and see what I find.”

Paul sensed the conversation was over, but he waited to be dismissed.

After a moment Agent Franklin said, “Thanks for your time.”

Stomach churning, Paul nodded and left. As worried as he was about the FBI scrubbing their system for digital fingerprints, he was relieved the agent had not mentioned the Department of Energy position.

He assumed Olbert had not reported getting an email offering to sell it. Thank god. Investigators would take job manipulation far more seriously than prank skin shots and sexual offers. That kind of crap happened so often it was impossible to catch or stop. Paul tried to push the worry out of his mind. They wouldn’t find anything that pointed directly at him, and he’d conducted his final arrangement. It would all blow over, he told himself. He had to focus on his date with Camille. Tonight was pivotal for their relationship, and he needed to be more charming than he’d ever been in his life.

After dinner at Georgio’s, they climbed in Paul’s car and headed for Camille’s house in Capitol Heights. Rain beat down on the metal roof and they could barely make conversation. As they turned off Central Avenue, Camille suddenly asked, “Would you alter personnel files if you had a good reason?”