THIRTY

The phone was ringing in the office of Consolidated Insurance Brokers in the downtown section of Philadelphia. It was bad timing. Everyone had left except for Roger French. He was now hesitating, torn between the guilt of leaving early and the benefit of avoiding rush hour traffic. He’d already been visualizing the route—over to JFK Boulevard and then from there onto the expressway. That would be the fastest way to make it to his daughter’s basketball game on time.

Roger’s hand reached down, hovering over the network panel button for the office phone system. Murphy’s Law told him he ought to let it go to voicemail. But a strong work ethic urged him to pick it up.

As he reached for his briefcase he punched the button on the panel that read Roger—Earpiece.

The man on the other end spoke in a crisp British accent. “Oh, so glad to hear someone is still there. I urgently need to acquire commercial insurance for an international company I represent.”

I knew I shouldn’t have answered the call. Roger tried to put off the pushy client. “I’d be glad to meet tomorrow. As early as you’d like. But I have a commitment tonight…”

“Yes. I’m sorry. But you see I only have limited time in the U.S. to set this up. My travel plans have been moved up, you see. I have to return to London tomorrow morning, so I have to discuss this with an insurance broker tonight.”

Roger’s voice was polite as he explained, “Actually, I am supposed to be at a my daughter’s basketball game in a little over an hour—”

“No problem, really,” the man said in a voice that had the smooth tone of accommodation to it. “I am just minutes from your office right now. I’m sure we can handle the preliminaries in thirty, forty minutes. I can pay you the fee for the initial binder. Then we can finish the details over the phone. That way you can still make your daughter’s basketball event. Would that suffice? It really is very important that I get this started before I leave the country tomorrow.”

Roger took a few moments to mull it over. “Sure…as long as it doesn’t take any longer than that…Mr., uh…I’m afraid I didn’t get your name.”

“Toby Arthur. I have a London-based business. And getting a certificate of insurance is the last hair on the dog so to speak, the one detail we still need for our financing so we can wrap up our expansion into the American market.”

“Okay. Then, five minutes?”

“Brilliant. I’ll be there.”

Roger hung up and hit his wife’s speed dial. After three or four rings, he was directed to her voicemail.

“Peg, this is Roger. I may be about ten or fifteen minutes late for the game. But don’t worry, I’ll be there. I promised Terri I’d make it this time. Love you.”

Atta Zimler, hair dyed red, wearing an expensive pinstriped suit, and carrying a briefcase, walked toward the offices of Consolidated Insurance Brokers five minutes after finishing his call to Roger. Zimler considered this an irritating side trip. But necessary. The dossier that Dr. Banica had furnished him was superficial at best. The Russian agents who had compiled it had only skimmed the surface of the RTS system. And there was zero personal information about Joshua Jordan that would enable Zimler to track him down to his most vulnerable point. Not that he couldn’t do it. He would. And Roger the insurance man was going to help him.

After Zimler entered the building’s main lobby, skillfully moving his face away from the video surveillance cameras, he went up to the fifth floor. He rang the buzzer for Consolidated Insurance. Roger opened the door, looking a little distracted, but flashed a quick smile to his customer. Zimler took his hand and shook it firmly. While he greeted Roger, he sized him up.

When Roger turned his back to gather a large manila file, Zimler swung his arm around with lightning speed and delivered a karate blow to the back of Roger’s neck.

Roger crumpled, hitting a small table in the lobby and scattering magazines as he collapsed to the floor.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a nightmare.

Disoriented, he tried to remember what had happened. Something covered the bottom of his face. Duct tape. But he couldn’t reach over to pull it off. He was tied to one of the office desk chairs, his arms pulled tight behind him and fastened at the wrists—more duct tape.

But there was something else. Wires had been taped to several places on his body including his chest, thighs, and ear lobes. Roger’s eyes followed the wires, trying to trace them. They led from his body down to the floor and over to some kind of box that had been plugged into a wall socket.

Atta Zimler waved a document in front of his victim. A copy of Roger’s email that he had posted to an antinuclear blog.

“So nice of you, Roger, to defend Joshua Jordan in this web posting; let’s see, how did you say it?—oh yes—‘a personal friend of my father-in-law, who is a former Pentagon general.’ So, I have some questions for you, Roger French. Questions about Joshua Jordan. He is a difficult man to reach, and it is very clear from this email that your father-in-law, General Bridger, may have confided certain information about Jordan to you. So you will tell me everything you know about him and his business, his family, everything.”

Zimler came down close to Roger’s face so he could deliver his sadistic warning in a quiet, calm voice. Zimler would make his victim understand that his body and his life, and everything about him was now in Zimler’s control. No use to struggle. No making plans of escape. Help would not come.

Zimler said, “So, now I am removing the tape. There, it’s off. You can breathe better now. Right? Okay. Now I will ask you the questions. And if I think that you are not telling me everything, then I will have to punish you with electricity. So, please tell me everything; don’t hold back as you answer my questions. Let’s begin with Jordan’s family.”