Storm Front

CHAPTER 21

CHAPPAQUA, New York

He had been able to rent a Mustang, which meant that for all the turmoil, there was at least one thing right in Storm’s world — the throaty, American-made V8 engine at his command.

It was shortly before eight o’clock by the time the Mustang’s GPS told him to depart the main drag, King Street, and point himself toward a WASP playground called Whippoorwill Country Club. Downshifting rather than braking, he made the turn and was just starting to enjoy the twisty, back country roads, when the GPS told him he was 250 yards from arriving. He slowed, looked left, and saw nothing. He looked right and saw a narrow driveway that disappeared into the trees up a hill. He twisted the wheel to the right.

Partway up the driveway, he encountered a gate with a call box next to it. Storm didn’t feel like having a conversation with a piece of plastic, so he rolled down his window, popped the facing off the box, and hotwired it. “Open Sesame,” he said as the gate swung out of his way.

He continued up the drive until he reached the circular end, which fronted a stone-faced Georgian Colonial that resided just barely on this side of ostentatious. The property that surrounded it felt like at least twelve acres. If Storm had had to put a price on the whole thing, he’d have said seven million. That was tip money to a guy of Cracker’s wealth. He must have been one of those rich guys who didn’t like to get too flashy with his dough. Or maybe his wife refused to upgrade.

Storm parked the Mustang in front of a detached garage that looked like it had room for at least five vehicles. He gave his own car a longing glance as he left it, then walked up to the front door. He rang. Unsurprisingly, the Cracker residence had one of those doorbells you expected to be answered by a butler.

Instead, the man of the house answered, opening the wooden inner door wide but leaving the outer, half-glass, half-screen door closed. He was still wearing his suit pants and a blue button-down shirt, but he had replaced his suit jacket with a cardigan sweater. Welcome to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.

“Can I help you?” he asked through the screen, looking somewhere between bewildered and awestruck. With good reason. A big chunk of man had showed up unannounced on his doorstep in the dark of night.

Storm had been having a debate with himself as to how much he should tell Cracker and how much he should leave out. He took a look at him, gauging the man. Maybe it was the blond hair or the cardigan, but Storm’s first impression was that he was a lightweight. Then Storm looked again and something told him Cracker was made of stern enough stuff. He could handle the truth. What’s more, he would insist on it.

“Mr. Cracker, my name is Derrick Storm. I’m working for the CIA on a case that may involve you. Is there somewhere we can talk about a sensitive matter?”

Cracker just stared at him some more. “But… how did you get up the driveway? There’s a gate.”

“Did you miss the part about the CIA?”

“No, no… Of course. I’m sorry. Come in. Come in.”

Cracker opened the door for Storm, who entered the house. The moment he did, his eyes began scanning the foyer, the hallway, every corner and crevice. It was part of Storm’s training to notice things that were out of place, a reflex that had become nearly as automatic as breathing. In this case, all it took was one glance to notice a few things that made him suspicious that Whitely Cracker’s house was not as private as Cracker thought. Once in the living room, Storm confirmed it: His hand swept the underside of the coffee table and quickly located a microchip not much larger than a pen tip.

Cracker was oblivious, still trying to play the role of gracious host: “Can I offer you anything to drink, Mr…. I’m sorry. I’m a little out of it. What did you say your name was?”

“Dunkel… Elder Steve Dunkel…. It is so wonderful of you to invite me into your home so I can tell you all about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’d like to talk about God’s plan for you. There are some simple steps you and your family can take to find powerful spiritual protection. Have you ever heard the name Joseph Smith?”

As he spoke, Storm had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling furiously. Whitely Cracker was in serious trouble. Click’s model had given it an 87 percent chance that Whitely was the next target. The Storm model had just upgraded it to 100. When he was done writing, he turned the note to Cracker, so he could read: “KICK ME OUT. THEN WALK OUTSIDE W/ ME.”

Cracker, who finally realized what was happening, played his part perfectly.

“I’m sorry, young man, but we already attend a church,” he said. “But why don’t you leave that magazine with me so I can read it at my leisure. I wish you all the best of luck on your mission. Have a nice night, now.”

“Thank you for your time, sir,” Storm said as he pushed through the screen door and back outside. Cracker lagged about ten feet behind. Storm kept walking until they were in the middle of the expansive front lawn, but still a distance from the trees that ringed the property.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t get your name.”

“Derrick Storm.”

“Right, right. And you’re with the CIA. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can confirm that?”

“I could have a tactical team land in your yard and surround your house, if you like,” Storm said. “Would that do it?”

Cracker looked hard, to see if Storm was joking. He wasn’t. “Okay, so we’re going to proceed as if you’re CIA,” Cracker said.

“That’s probably the best course of action. Especially since your house is bugged.”

“Is that what you pulled out from under the table?”

“Yes. Your house is rotten with bugs. I didn’t see any cameras. But the place is all ears.”

Storm had never known Volkov to bother with electronic surveillance this elaborate — he usually just did his reconnaissance the old-fashioned way. What’s more, the bug Storm had pulled from the coffee table was not the cheap kind he had gotten familiar with in his private investigator days. It was top-of-the-line. But perhaps the setup of the house, with all those trees and all that land around it, had required it. Or perhaps Volkov was changing, growing more sophisticated.

Cracker was struggling to keep up. “So how did you… I mean, you just walk into my house and… What? Could you smell them or something?”

“I saw a few things that made me concerned the moment I walked in. I’ve bugged a few houses in my time. You have to know what to look for. Whoever did it was very good, but they weren’t perfect. For example, as I walked in the house, I saw a piece of wallpaper that had been recently peeled back and then reglued. But whoever did it was a little hasty about it and the glue didn’t entirely take. I guarantee you’d find a bug tucked in there. There are probably a dozen others on the first floor alone. Under furniture. In light fixtures. All over. They’re all small, which means they’re not very powerful, which means you have to use a lot of them. They’re likely transmitting to a unit that’s hidden somewhere in your house. If we went up into your attic, we’d probably find it buried in some insulation. That’s where I’d put it anyway. Depending on what they’re using, the transmitter could be as small as a fist and yet powerful enough to send the signal anywhere within a mile of here.”

“But how is that… Who would bug my house?”

“Quite possibly the same person who’s trying to kill you,” Storm said.

“What?!?” Cracker exploded.

“Mr. Cracker, are there children inside the house?”

“Yes, they’re upstairs. Their mother… my wife, Melissa… she’s putting them to bed, but…”

“Forgive the bluntness of this question, but I don’t have time to be polite: Your wife, can she handle herself? Or is she a trophy?”

“Oh, she’s whip smart,” Cracker said. “Much smarter than me.”

“Then you should bring her outside and tell her to get ready to leave. And, naturally, she should take the kids with her,” Storm said.

“Yes, of course, but… I’m sorry, could you go back to the part about someone wanting to kill me? I’m still sort of stuck on that.”

“Let me put this as plainly as I know how: We have a strong reason to believe your life is in grave danger. A Russian assassin named Gregor Volkov is on his way to your house right now to kill you. But before he kills you, he will torture you for your MonEx Four Thousand password, which he is providing to someone who wants to trigger a worldwide financial catastrophe.”

Storm expected to see some demonstrable reaction to this news, but Cracker’s face betrayed no emotion.

“I see,” he said. “And you expect me to believe this… why?”

“Think hard, Mr. Cracker. Have you noticed anything unusual in the last few days? Someone following you, perhaps? I’ve tangled with Volkov before. He’s the best of the best and leaves nothing to chance. He doesn’t normally use bugs, but they’re evidence of his presence. His normal procedure is to have advance teams in place to perform surveillance anywhere from a day to a week ahead of when he strikes. Maybe you noticed a car behind you on your way to work?”

“No, no, nothing like that. You said the man’s name was VolKoff?” Cracker said, over-pronouncing the name. “And he’s Russian?”

“That’s correct. Don’t bother trying to place him. You don’t know him. Volkov is working for someone else. We just haven’t figured out who yet.”

“Ah,” Cracker said. That was it. Just “Ah.”

Storm surmised the man must be in shock. A perfect stranger had waltzed into his life and told him he was about to be murdered. He just wasn’t processing it yet.

“This is serious, Mr. Cracker. Volkov is a brutal killer. There are five investment bankers dead already. We have reason to believe you’re going to be the sixth.”

“And why is that?”

“Are you familiar with the Click Theory?”

Cracker tilted his head, wore a brief look of concentration, then said, “No. What’s the Click Theory?”

“A quantitative economist named Rodney Click has re created the foreign exchange market in an elaborate computer model. He has used it to predict that six currency traders, properly placed in the right institutions across the globe, could trigger a precipitous plunge in the value of the U.S. dollar if they all bailed on the dollar at the same time.”

“Interesting,” Cracker said. “And why would this Volkov fellow want this to happen?”

“Again, Volkov is just the muscle. He’s giving the MonEx codes to someone else. Until we know who that person or group is, it’s almost impossible to guess motive — other than that it’s someone who wants to cause a major financial calamity.”

“And Volkov has killed five people already?”

“That’s right.”

“How terrible,” Cracker said. “But what makes you think I’m going to be number six?”

“Professor Click tweaked his model to predict who the sixth banker might be. It reported there was an eighty-seven percent chance it would be you.”

“I see.” Cracker spoke as if his mind was churning through its own predictive modeling. “Well, in that case, it’s a good thing my company has a security force. My chief of security is a man named Barry. He’s excellent. I’ll alert him to this threat and see to it he treats it with the utmost seriousness. Thank you, Mr. Storm. Thank you so much for coming out and telling me about this.”

“You don’t believe me,” Storm said, flatly. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“No, no. I mean, yes. Of course I believe you. It’s just that Barry can watch out for me.”

“Barry is really that good, huh?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So good that he was fully aware that your house — and probably your car and your office as well — have been bugged.”

“You make a fair point,” Cracker offered. “So what are you proposing I do?”

Storm had already been pondering his options. Volkov had been in South Africa that morning. It was possible he could be in the New York area by now. And if he had enough of a team in place to bug Cracker’s house so thoroughly, it meant he had enough of a team in place to move in. Storm considered having Jones pull some levers and get the Chappaqua Police to park a patrol car outside the Cracker residence as a deterrent, but then he thought better of it. There was nothing one municipal cop was going to be able to do to stop a man like Volkov. Storm would just be putting one more person in harm’s way.

Besides, Storm could play defense later. First, he wanted to play some offense.

“First, here’s my number,” Storm said, handing him a Storm Investigations business card. “If you become fearful for your life, call me. Remember that if you call me from your cell phone, your home phone, your office phone, or from anywhere other than a pay phone in the middle of nowhere, someone is probably going to be listening.”

“Okay,” Cracker said, accepting the card and programming the number into his phone.

“Now our plan: We’re going to flush them out of hiding,” Storm said. “See who ‘them’ really is. Hit them before they hit us.”

“How do we do that?”

“Mr. Cracker, how fast do you usually drive?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ten or fifteen miles over the speed limit. I’m no speed demon, but if you don’t go at least that fast around here, you’ll get run over.”

“What route do you drive to work?”

Cracker told him, finishing with “Why are you asking all this?”

“Because,” Storm said, “I need to borrow your car.”

Fifteen minutes later, wearing Whitely Cracker’s driving cap, Derrick Storm settled in the front seat of Cracker’s Maserati and rolled out the Cracker front gate. He hunched down to appear a few inches shorter than he was. He was counting on darkness to hide the other dissimilarities between his and Whitely Cracker’s appearance.

He had instructed Cracker to head back into the house and tell Melissa that he needed to return to the office. This, of course, had two purposes. It would alert Volkov’s team that “Cracker” was about to be on the move; it would also safeguard Cracker and his family, since Volkov’s men would think that their target was in the Maserati, not back at his house.

If it meant putting himself in danger, so be it. Better him than a hedge fund manager, a house wife, and two children.

He did not bother sweeping the car for bugs; he just assumed there would be at least one and assumed, further, that someone would be listening. He needed to make everything sound normal. He punched the radio on, ready to suffer with whatever auditory assault came next. Cracker struck Storm as the kind of guy who might listen to some truly awful world music, filled with flutes and bongos and crap like that. Thankfully, Bloomberg Business News filled the car’s speakers.

As Storm had suspected, there was no one waiting for him at the end of the driveway. There was no good place to hide there, and besides, there was only one way out of Cracker’s neighborhood. They could afford to tuck themselves somewhere out on the main road and wait there. Storm drove the twisty part of the route by himself.

He picked up the tail once he reached King Street. It was a white panel van, likely one stuffed full of monitoring devices in the back. Storm smiled. This would be easy. White panel vans were good for a lot of things. Tailing someone surreptitiously was not one of them. The van would be easy to spot the whole drive.

Storm merged onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, an ancient and thoroughly outmoded roadway that predated the Eisenhower Interstate Highway system. It was cramped and winding, filled with blind curves, and yet some cars bombed down it at eighty-five miles an hour like it was a broad, flat stretch of the Autobahn. Yes, Derrick Storm was an international spy who was regularly hunted by assassins and had narrowly cheated death dozens of times, but the Saw Mill River Parkway? Man, that road was dangerous.

About ten minutes into the drive, Storm figured out what his move was going to be. He stripped off his jacket, tied it to the steering wheel, then anchored the other end by rolling up the window on it. He wanted to see if he could get the car to continue at least somewhat straight without his hands on the wheel. Yet it still had to allow him to make a left turn.

He fiddled with the jacket until he was satisfied it would work. Then he decided to wait before springing it and untied it. He wanted to lull the van’s occupants into thinking this was just another trip to the office by a guy who worked too much. He needed them to be as unwary as possible. Time was on his side.

They had probably been sitting on the house for days and were likely tired from the stakeout. They’d be sleepier by the end of the ride.

He continued onto the Henry Hudson Parkway — Hudson would have begged his crew to mutiny if he could have seen the road they named after him — and kept a steady speed toward Manhattan. The white panel van stayed comfortably behind him, sometimes as much as a quarter mile back. It was the kind of tail being performed by men who had done this before, knew where they were going, and were not concerned about losing their mark.

Storm passed the George Washington Bridge and stayed with the road as it became the West Side Highway, renamed in 1999 after baseball star Joe DiMaggio — another icon now rolling in his grave. As they went below 42nd Street and started hitting lights, the panel van actually got trapped one light behind, causing Storm some mild consternation. He needed the van tight behind him for his idea to work. He relaxed when it caught up.

Storm made the turn toward the Marlowe Building at Warren Street. There were any number of ways to reach Cracker’s office, but that was the route Cracker said he took. Then Storm made the right on Broadway. He signaled well in advance of Liberty Street, his next turn. He rigged Cracker’s jacket to the steering wheel as he had before.

Storm took one last glance at the panel van. It was still about a block back, cruising through lights that were all timed to stay green. Perfect.

He made the left on Liberty, just beyond a tall building that housed a Sephora and a Bank of America on its lower floors. The moment the van was out of sight, Storm punched the cruise control, which he had set to a pokey twenty-five miles an hour. He sprung from the driver’s seat, leaping out of the passenger side. The car was still accelerating and wasn’t going much more than about twenty. Storm landed on his feet then quickly rolled in between a pair of parked cars.

Eight seconds later, the panel van eased past him, having just made the turn itself. Another car, a red Honda, followed it ten seconds later. Up ahead, Storm heard the scraping of metal as the Maserati careened along some parked cars. So much for straight. Storm peeked out in time to see the Maserati plow into a yellow cab waiting at the light on Nassau Street. The panel van slowed to a halt behind it. The Honda stopped behind the panel van.

The cabbie had sprung out of his car and was waving his arms in the air, shouting in some language that even Storm didn’t understand. The driver of the red Honda — who couldn’t see past the panel van to know what had happened, but could make out that the light was green — honked his horn impatiently.

It was a perfect cover. Storm raced alongside the passenger side of the panel van. He was assuming there were two people in the van, one driving, the other in back with the equipment. His plan was age-old and simple: shoot the driver, make the guy in back take the wheel, and go someplace a little more private, then have a conversation with him.

Storm yanked the passenger door open and had the trigger halfway depressed when he realized the barrel of his gun was pointed at Clara Strike.