2 A Month of Mondays (2 page)

Money Can't Buy You Love

Clarence gazed out into the factory, impressed by the
orderliness of the operation. Machines and equipment moved inexorably,
performing repetitive tasks. Men and women in yellow plastic caps and white
smocks lifted, pulled, pushed, and inspected product. The thick walls of the
office and the glass kept the majority of the noise to a minimum. Still, he
could hear people mumbling, machinery clanking, and hydraulic presses hissing. Behind
it all was the rhythmic sound of metal being stamped, pressed, and cut.

"We are not talking about an insurrection like John
Brown at Harper's Ferry, here, Mr. Brookhaven. The current atmosphere is not
ripe enough for a rebellion to be successful," George H. Beckford, III
said.

Clarence did not turn. He understood Beckford's reluctance
to involve his company in their plans. Granville Arms was a supplier of weapons
to military units world-wide. Their largest customer was the US government. Granville
supplied dozens of state police forces, National Guard Armies, and even provided
some specialized weapon choices to the Navy SEALs and the FBI.

Being a government vendor had its perks, but also its
dangers. Exposure to federal inspectors, local and national corruption, and the
never-ending meddling of anti-gun lobbyists created a nervous atmosphere. Beckford
knew on which side his bread was buttered.

At the same time, Clarence knew that their proposal was very
tempting.

"We do not expect you to fall on your sword,
George," Clarence said. He watched his reflection in the glass. He could
see George sitting uncomfortably behind a large oak desk behind him. Clarence
imagined that George sat at that desk maybe a few hours per year. It did not
seem to fit him. "We do not even need your money. We have that. We need
your cooperation. We need your supply lines. And we need your secrecy."

"Secrecy. That does not come cheaply," he replied
in a huff.

Clarence turned then, a puzzled look on his face.  George
was a big man. His face was lined with age, his goatee trimmed short and mostly
white. His hair was a shock of white. It was a stark contrast to his tanned
skin. George was an avid outdoorsman. The exposure to so much sun had left its
mark on his face and on his gnarled hands. He appeared much older and at the
same time much younger than his fifty-eight years.

"Surely you are not insinuating that you are in need of
cash."

"I am merely stating that you are clearly not aware of
how much federal and global pressure we have to remain 'transparent' in our
operations. We have a team of lawyers from a dozen countries here every month
looking over our books, our operations, and our shipments. Secrecy is a foreign
idea."

"What are you getting at, George."

George turned up his mouth and twirled a pen between his
fingers.

"I bought an abandoned factory in Mississippi in 1987. Long
before I was dealing with Uncle Sam. I still own it under a different
corporation, one that I run indirectly. It has been fitted for production of
several makes of our most requested items, mostly copies of Kalishnikovs,
rocket launchers, and high volume machine pistols," George said. He raised
his eyebrows, "I would be willing to make this factory operational and
provide a work force to produce the products we discussed. For a fee."

"A fee. Not a cost per shipment?"

"That, too. I am afraid that I will require the capital
to re-fit the tooling, the dies, and the production lines. I will also need to
hire some ballistic engineers for design, quality control, and management of
the project. These individuals will have to be vetted properly to maintain the
level of secrecy you demand."

"I see. I suppose you have a number in mind."

George shrugged.

"I suppose I could throw a number off the top of my
head. That is not how I do business. Let me put together a complete proposal
and get back with you," George suggested.

Clarence shook his head. He sat in the leather chair across
from George.

"We do not have the time, Mr. Beckford."

"Twenty-two billion dollars."  George's eyes
betrayed him. The glitter there told Clarence all he needed to know.

Clarence smiled.

"Will that be enough to cover your expenses,
George?"

He did not fidget at all.

"You are welcome to check around. Get some other
proposals. I am not the only manufacturer of small arms in the world,
Clarence."

"We are aware of that. We have contacted firms in
Germany and China. We can hire three companies for the price you are asking,"
Clarence countered.

George shrugged.

"Then, by all means, that is what you should do."

Clarence smirked.

"How soon can you start?" he asked.

"I can have the staff hired by next week and the plant
can be operational in six months. First shipment by December, let's say?"

"Merry Christmas to us."

"Yes. Merry Christmas," George replied. He put the
pen down on the desk. His brows furrowed and Clarence knew he was fidgeting for
the first time. George had expected him to balk at the price. Clarence knew
that what came next would hint at his greatest fear. "So, I have never
been squeamish about how my weapons are used. I know that they are responsible
for deaths of innocents, women, children, old people as well as rebels and
insurgents. However, I am curious about this rebellion you have planned. How
can this consortium of companies and organizations that you mention pull off a
global coup?  What makes you think that a corporatacracy will work?"

Clarence nodded. He tried to avoid seeming smug. He leveled
his gaze at George.

"It already is working. The conversion of China to
capitalism has begun. We already have dominion in America. Europe cannot
compete. The elite are in place. We need only to pull in the dissidents and the
masses to break sway with existing forms of government. That is where you come
in."

"But. Without the existing forms of government,
currency becomes obsolete," George said. Clarence could smell the fear.

The wealthy outside of the elite were all like this at first.
The panic came from years of building empires of money with the understanding
that it was all a house of cards, built on the financial structure of an
arbitrary global concept of what constitutes "money."    

"I am glad you see our situation clearly."

"That is why you can pay my price," he said
flatly.

"We are prepared to pay whatever it takes,"
Clarence replied.

"With currency that is soon to be worthless." 
Anger was beginning to boil to the surface.

Clarence shrugged.

"You named the price. We will listen to any reasonable
offer. If you are interested."

Clarence picked the pen back up and looked through the glass.
Clarence remained still. He knew that Beckford was thinking. He saw his jaw
twitch. Then, George's blue eyes snapped back down to settle on Clarence. He
could see some defiance there.

"Who are you to insult me like this?"

Clarence kept his voice calm. He was used to this reaction. He
had experienced the same response from a dozen owners already this month.

"I am merely a messenger, George. But you know who I
represent. You know the power they wield. I do not need to remind you."

Clarence watched as George's neck became red. He tapped the
pen on the desk.

"You threaten me?"

"No. Your expertise is important to us. Even though we
have the option of demanding your services, we are able to offer you a position
of power in return for your cooperation. We fully expect you to take advantage
of our generous offer. I am merely the bearer of good news. Refuse, and George,
you may be visited by another messenger with an entirely different message. Perhaps
then, we will be engaging in a different conversation. For now, let me
encourage you to take the offer. It is very generous. Plus, twenty-two billion
dollars in this economy would make you a very important figure in the
meantime." 

George appeared to struggle containing himself. Finally, he
snorted through his nose.

"Forgive me, Mr. Brookhaven. My wife tells me that
sometimes I lead with my temper. I am like a bull in a china closet. You are
right. My price for making the Mississippi plant operational and supplying you
with arms for your new government can be done for the price we have discussed. And
the position you have promised."

"Good. We will have a gentleman's agreement,
then."

"Gentlemen. That is funny. I thought we are both
hunters."

Clarence smiled at that.

"Yes. We are hunters. That is appropriate. It is always
better to be the hunter than the hunted, wouldn't you agree?"  Clarence left
the veiled threat hang in the air with his hand extended.

George took his hand. It was huge and hot. Their eyes met
and Clarence was confident that his message had been delivered.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Brookhaven."

"Merry Christmas to you, George."

Say My Name

Jake could feel her pressing
against him. He knew he was dead. Of course, he could kick her with his right
knee in the kidney from this position. He was certain it would connect. He
could feel her hip at his thigh. But the Browning was securely under his arm. The
bullet would travel across his chest cavity, through lungs, heart and back out
his left shoulder. And that would be it:  so much for Jake Monday, vaunted
assassin.

He wanted to regret his recent
actions. Recounting all the decisions that got him to this moment, he realized
he could not remember ever wanting to be an assassin. He couldn’t recall when
it had first occurred.  She was right:  he had forgotten his roots. How could
she know him so well, when he was such a mystery to himself?

He could remember some important
things about his life. He remembered test driving the Bugatti, could remember
the blonde that sold him his set of seven ties. He recalled the lady with the
locket lying prone on the ground. But his roots?  What made Jake Monday tick? 
Big mystery, that.

“Get against the wall,” she
ordered. He could smell her perfume over the mahogany interior. Her eyes were
actually green, he saw. They were wild. Her hair, swept away from her face now,
framed her porcelain features. He noted the light red-and-brown freckles across
the bridge of her nose. He wondered why he had not noticed her before.

He expected it to end then. He was
surprised as he backed up to obey her order that her other hand snaked behind
his ear. She grabbed his hair and tugged forcefully.

The next thing he knew she was
kissing him desperately. He could taste the espresso and lemon. Her lips were
soft, but she pushed them against his with such force he could feel her teeth.  He
could feel the heat of her body pressed against him. She pulled away with a
gasp.

“I’m sorry,” he said. The
automatic was still there. She hadn’t released the pressure of its barrel.

“You still don’t remember, do
you?”  Her eyes pleaded with him. Perspiration and spittle coated her upper
lip.

“What am I supposed to remember?”

“I love you, Monday!”  She seemed
more upset now than ever. He could not tell if she had meant it as an admission
or an accusation.

“I don’t deserve this?” 

“We met four years ago in Berlin.
We worked together before you came to work here.”

“Wait. Berlin? I’ve never been to
Berlin. I’ve only known you for a couple of weeks.”

Her eyes showed pity. She shook
her head slowly.

They just passed the 55
^th
floor. She reached back, the Browning still in place, and slammed the button
for 60. She appeared to have planned this stop.

“Les said it may take a while for
you to adjust.”

“Listen, Hallie. Maybe you have
the wrong guy. I mean, I would be willing to take you out for some seafood and
maybe a walk down by the Bay. I have a cottage out on Blackstone Lake, we could
spend a weekend there...”

“Shut it, Monday.”

“Okay.”

The elevator stopped. Hallie led
him out into a corridor. It was dark here. The only light came from the
elevator and an exit sign ten feet away. The elevator closed.

“Go to the stairs. Quick.”

He obeyed. He had never been on
this floor of the building before. He went through the door and up the stairs. They
climbed two floors and then Hallie stopped him. The door onto floor 62 had a
small window in it. She glanced in and then moved to one side. She squatted
low, her skirt tucked neatly against her knees. Jake knelt on one knee on the
other side of the door.

“Are you going to tell me what is
going on or do I have to figure this out?”

“Jake, you aren’t who you think
you are.”

“That’s a relief. So I can stop
pretending to be Homer Simpson now?”  She ignored him.

“We work for the same company. But
not the Galbraith Alliance. You are in deep cover here and now you are in deep
for real.”

“You are starting to worry me,
Hallie. Should I be worried?”

“Very.”  She pulled a wallet out
of her jacket pocket and flipped it open. It had her id inside. Beside her
picture was a red and blue shield over a marshal’s star.

“You work for the Secret Service?”

“And so do you. You have been our
eyes inside Galbraith for the last two years. You were here to make sure their
targets didn’t include persons protected by us. You went dark about a year ago.
We thought you were in deep. We had no idea you went rogue.”  He just stared at
her.

“Until.”

“Until last week. You showed up in
Atlanta. Your target was the Chief.”

“Not my idea. I even voted for
him."

“Yeah. When you didn’t pull it
off, we knew that you were in trouble. I had infiltrated two weeks ago to keep
an eye on you, but I had no idea that Galbraith had this contract.”

“I would like to say that I made a
conscious decision to spare his life. My hesitation was to save my own skin. Maybe
deep down something else stopped me, I don't know.”  He was thinking about
Camilla again. He realized with a shock that he had remembered her name.

“I know.”  She looked sincere.

He whistled low and looked away. He
was having a hard time digesting this.

“But how?  How were they able to
get me to agree to do something totally against my will?”

“They’ve been brain washing you
and drugging you for over a year, evidently. Your friend Barb has been slipping
you a sedative. You probably feel groggy right about now, right?”

“I’m fuzzy. But I am alert enough
to wonder if I should trust you.”

She stood up and glanced out the
window.

“Probably not.”  She slipped the
Browning back into its holster and stepped through the door. “Come on.”

Jake hesitated. He had to be crazy
to follow her. He had to be crazy to trust her. Jake Monday, the Secret Service
Agent?  Or, Jake Monday the high-paid assassin of the Galbraith Alliance?  He
could not for the life of him decide which was more plausible. It all sounded
like it was out of some cheap television drama.

He licked his lips and tasted
again the espresso and lemon.
I guess the answers could be enlightening,
he reasoned. He followed after her.

Hallie was ahead of him. She was
following what appeared to be a janitor. He noticed her heels beside him. One
was turned over on its side. They were snakeskin Bottega Venetas, worth almost
a thousand dollars. Jake tried to reconcile this mystery with the woman in the
conservative blazer, chewed nails and heirloom necklace. He had been so wrong
about the JC Penny shoes.

So sue me, I’m a man.

He watched as she crept up on the
unsuspecting man in the blue overalls. Hallie’s bare feet suddenly left the
floor and Jake watched, stunned, as she leapt high in the air. Her feet crossed
and her calves wrapped around the man’s neck. Hallie fell backwards, her hands
slapping the tile of the corridor. She arched her back and used her momentum to
flip the man backwards over her.

Jake looked on as the man’s skull
crashed onto the floor. He heard a sickening snap. Hallie was on her feet and
grabbing a mop before Jake could move. He hadn’t appreciated just how much
trouble he had been in. Hallie broke the mop handle over her knee.

“Here. Take this. You’re going to
need it.”

She threw it at him. He caught it
in the middle with one hand. He spun it clockwise and then back the other way
effortlessly.

“Not a competition, Monday. You
don’t need to show off. Come on before we are both dead.”

“What’s the plan?”

She looked back at him, her mouth
serious, her eyes worried.

“Jump.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just come on,” she said as she
turned.

They made their way down the
corridor to another lobby. Hallie led them left and into a large bay of offices
all glass and modern fixtures. Not one soul sat at a terminal. No one visited
at the water cooler by the coffee maker. The entire place was deserted.

“Can you explain something?”

“If we have time.”

“Where is everyone?”

“No one works here. This entire
building is a front for the Galbraith Alliance. They are assassins for hire by
the highest bidder. They maintain legitimate businesses, but to hide all their
transactions, they have to dump more money into ventures like this than they
have people to man it.”

“How long have you known about
this?”

“Not as long as you.”

The view from the expansive office
was amazing. New York in all its glory stretched out before them, the sun
shining in the east across the river.

 “Quick. It has to be this side.” 
She led them through a maze of desks, fake plants and piles of office supplies
and equipment still in boxes. She reached into her pocket and drew out a small
device with a button. She depressed it and put it into her pocket.

“What was that?”

“My signal to Les. Don’t back out
on me now, Monday. We have to get you to the lab and get that implant out
before it is too late. They will know we were here. They can get to anyone
anytime as you know.”

“Yeah, but evidently so can you.”

Hallie stopped. She panted heavily
from racing through the building. But her intense gaze softened and she
smirked.

“Well, Jake. Maybe it’s because
I’m more determined. I have our family at stake.”

“Family?”

Suddenly, a roar erupted outside
the building. The tower shook, the glass in the office rattled. In the distance
he could hear an explosion. Ceiling tiles fell out and electrical wires dropped
from above. Jake ducked and then dove for the cover of a desk.

Jake could feel the bullets pass
by before he heard them. Instincts kicked in. He picked up his mop handle and
ran back the way they had come. He vaulted a desk and landed on top of two men
in flak jackets wielding MP5s. He caught one in the throat with the end of the
handle. He heard the wet gurgle and the man dropped his weapon, his hand
grabbing his torn throat.

Jake stepped in on the bigger man
and put his foot down on the mercenary’s instep. He yelled and lurched forward.
As he did, Jake grabbed the submachine gun and swung it over the man’s head. He
brought the butt down on the back of the man’s skull.

“Stop playing around and get over
here!  We have to leave now, Jake!”

Pumped with adrenaline and
grateful that the excitement of the moment was lifting the fogginess he had
felt earlier, Jake retreated back toward Hallie. He fired off short bursts of
fire. He had no extra ammunition, but he wanted the men in pursuit to keep
their heads down until he got back to Hallie. He turned again to see where she
was headed and was astounded to see her aiming her Browning at the window in
front of her.

She fired off three shots, the
Browning thundering in the confines of the empty office. He could still hear
pursuit behind him, could feel the heat of trained assassins aiming their
weapons at the back of his head. He went into a sudden roll. His tie flew out
beside his ear, his jacket flapped crazily around him. A shower of wood
fragments in front of him told him he had reacted just in time.

When he looked back at Hallie, she
was motioning him and yelling something. He realized he could not hear anything.
Everything seemed to slow. He tried to stand again, but the effort seemed
impossible. He dared not look back again.

He had lost the MP5 in the roll
but he didn’t care. He ran as fast as he could. He could not tell if he was on
a carpet or in sand. Hallie was frantic. She fired two shots over his shoulder.
He dimly was aware of a shout behind him. Then, Hallie was grabbing his arm and
shouting.

“JUMP Jake!”

He looked at her dumbly, the wind
whipping his jacket as he stood on the broken glass from the shattered window,
Hallie grabbing his elbow so hard that he could almost feel himself wake from
this dream.

“JUMP Monday! Now! Trust me!”

That was the problem. Maybe he
didn’t trust himself. Too much had happened too fast. But as crazy as it
sounded, there was something about her eyes. There was something about the
taste of lemon and espresso on his lips.

And he jumped. He felt as if he
had jumped up instead of out. It was an absolutely beautiful feeling. He was
free. His tie slapped his right cheek as he descended. He felt his jacket rip. He
had jumped out of a south-facing window. He looked down at an improbable large
expanse of grass about two hundred yards across the bay. Directly below him was
concrete and vehicles, small but getting bigger every second.

 The ground came so fast. Faster
than he expected. Faster than he wanted. He felt Hallie grip him from behind
and something prod his back. Something slipped around his waist, a thin, strong
cord.

Then he was climbing. He felt a
pressure around his waist, an arm hooked about him. He felt Hallie squeeze him.
She yelled in his ear. He could hear the strain in her voice.

“Believe me when I say ‘jump!’”

They spun slowly, the river coming
closer. Bullets sought them out, gray trails of smoke signaling their deadly
path. The nylon cloth of the ram-air chute fluttered gently as they began their
descent. He wondered if it would hold both of them.

Hallie struggled to steer and hold
him at the same time. From the pull at his back, he could tell Hallie had
hooked them together at the waist, but she was still staining to maintain her
grip around his waist. He could feel her shake as her muscles reached their
breaking point.

Jake turned enough to grab a
cross-brace. He felt Hallie panic as they steered quickly in that direction,
the Hudson a green-brown gulf below them. He reached around to his right side
and grabbed the other cross-brace, his arms outstretched behind him, Hallie’s
weight against his back to take the stress off her arm.