The hangars are huge, built for repairing giant bombers, which begs the question of why GSG acquired the buildings in the first place. Must be a bitch to heat in the winter. But then, this isn’t winter, that’s for sure, and even from his hidden spot under the trees Jack can feel the heat radiating from the miles of runways. So maybe it’s a moot point. He can’t get any closer without showing himself and he’s not ready to do that, not yet, so this vantage will have to do. The enormous shed doors are part-way open, leaving most of the vast interior in shadow. Even with the binocs, he can’t see very far inside. There are a couple of vehicles in the shade, transport vans, probably, and a private jet. A couple of guys in overalls are polishing the jet, taking their own sweet time, but if there’s a helicopter hiding in the shadows, Jack can’t make it out. Which doesn’t mean it’s not there.
Set back from the hangar is a long bunkerlike structure bristling with antennae, looks like it might date from the 1950s, a couple of smaller warehouse structures and, behind that, a new two-story office building emblazoned with the company logo.
Jack wishes him luck. Better luck than he’s having out here in mosquitoville, staring at shadows.
The company prefers to keep its employees fully caffeinated. True, there’s a decaf option, but mostly the requests are for high-octane, as prepared by a tag team of young gals from the cafeteria staff, who act as baristas during the midmorning break. Unlike Starbucks, there are no fancy macchiatos or mochas on menu, but steamed lattes are available, cheerfully dispensed, and there’s a fresh BestWhip dispenser for those who want to top off their espressos. All in all, a vast improvement on the usual corporate swill, and Milton is happily sipping his latte and milling around with a dozen or so of the office staff, most of whom happen to be female. Despite the novelty of barista-brewed coffee, GSG is in many ways a very traditional setup. A throwback, really, in which the mostly male bosses have glass-fronted offices on a mezzanine, overlooking the mostly female staff assigned to workstations on the main floor. The formal breaks are staggered so that no more than a quarter of the staffers are absent from their workstations at any one time.
As a visiting auditor Milton will be able to roam, but has so far been concentrating on receivables, where time cards and per-diem expenses are processed. Mostly paperless PDF files sent from BlackBerries half a world away, and which are then sorted, assembled, reprocessed and forwarded to the Pentagon under the provisions of The Contract. That’s how staff refer to it, with capital letters, and with the reverence of patriots quoting from the Constitution. The Contract states this, The Contract states that. Not surprising, since an understanding of the minutiae of the contract enables the company to make a guaranteed profit on every aspect of the business, and thus keep generous salaries and benefits flowing to all of the employees.
The second most common phrase uttered by staffers is “Taylor wants,” and although Milton has yet to see the big boss, he has already formed a pretty good picture of the man, who is held in very high regard by his staff. Something of a local legend, apparently. Star running back of the high school football team, awarded the Bronze Star for his military service and now founder of one of the biggest employers in the area, although most of the actual employees, and by far the most highly paid, are “day” contractors assigned to posts in Afghanistan.
“Over there,” says one of his coffee mates, under her breath. “That’s him.”
Taylor Gatling, Jr., is in the house. Nodding and giving little celebrity waves as he makes his way quickly over the main floor and lightly ascends the steps to the mezzanine. A fit-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a military- style haircut, casually dressed in short sleeves and slacks, designer sunglasses hanging from a shirt pocket. Ready to take on the world, no doubt about it, that much is obvious from a glance.
“What a cutie,” says one of the bookkeepers, and is quickly shushed, although the shushing is accompanied by knowing smiles. “Hey, it’s not like he’s married,” she adds, and then drops it upon being gently elbowed.
A few minutes later Milton is back at his workstation, sifting through on-screen files, when a supervisor taps him on the shoulder. “Mr. Bean? Could you follow me, please?”
Milton stands, aware that his cloak of invisibility is fraying-every eye on the main floor has him in focus-and nods meekly. “Of course, is there some problem?”
“No problem at all,” he is assured. “Strictly routine. We’ll have you back at work in a jiffy.”
He follows the supervisor up to the mezzanine, where he’s led into one of the glass-fronted offices. Hip perched on a desk, Taylor Gatling, Jr., greets him with a cool smile. “Milton Bean? Nice to meet you.”
He holds out a hand. Milton shakes. Thinking, it’s okay to be nervous, I’m a nervous little guy who dislikes being singled out, that’s my cover and also who I am.
“Have a seat, Mr. Bean, this won’t take but a moment,” he says, using a remote to adjust the window shades for privacy.
There are two other men in the room, both of whom share the boss’s level of fitness, as well as the military haircuts. Casually dressed but nothing remotely casual about them. Security, Milton guesses. Definitely ex-military. Neither of them says a word.
“So, Milton, it’s my understanding that you’re a spot auditor. May I ask who you’re working for?”
“My CPA firm,” Milton says, naming the firm that once employed him and still keeps his ID current. “I’m a forensic accountant.”
“Yeah, we get that, but who hired your firm? DOD? IRS? They both have the right to run audits at any time, without advance notification. Which is it?”
“Can’t say, because I don’t know.”
“I’m thinking IRS. Maybe that ID of yours is a cover and you really work directly for the Infernal Revenue. Is that it?”
“No, sir. It’s a spot audit, that’s all. We, um, do it all the time. I suggest you call my supervisor.” Milton takes a business card from his wallet, places it on the desk.
Taylor Gatling, Jr., doesn’t touch the card. He seems faintly amused by the ploy. “No doubt if we call that number, your place of employment will be confirmed. My concern isn’t the validity of your ID, Mr. Bean. It is, frankly, you.”
“Excuse me?”
“As you may have noticed, we have a state-of-the-art security system. When you presented your ID this morning your name and identification number ran through the system. Your name popped and the system notified us that a few days ago you were busily auditing accounts at QuantaGate, in Waltham, Massachusetts. Correct?”
“That’s correct, yes.”
“It can’t be a coincidence, Mr. Bean.”
Milton allows himself a shrug, as if his motives are questioned every day, part of the job. He’s ready with a plausible fallback position. “There was a question about the time cards for the security guards. Whether or not Gama Guards may have billed for more personnel than were actually on the premises over the last two quarters. GSG owns Gama Guards, so here I am.”
“Ah,” Taylor says, arms folded comfortably across his chest. “So you’re investigating possible fraud, is that it? Billing for no-show workers?”
“Just checking the books.”
“Because, funny thing, Gama Guards is located in Delaware. You want to hire Gama Guards security guards, you call the office in Wilmington. It all goes through Wilmington. All billing, all time cards, all paychecks, all ledgers, all books. Everything. Somebody made a mistake. You’re in the wrong office in the wrong state, Mr. Bean.”
Milton does his best to look dumbfounded, which isn’t all that difficult. “There’s obviously been a mistake,” he says, as obsequiously as possible. “All I can do is apologize. It’s company policy that forensic accountants leave the target premises upon request, pending legal resolution. I’ll get my things and leave immediately.”
As Milton attempts to rise, the two subordinates force him back down in the chair, not a word spoken, and hold him there with grips of iron. Without him quite knowing how they did it, they have moved behind him, cutting off any possible angle of escape.
Taylor gives him a grim, self-satisfied smile. “We have a few more questions,” he says.
It happens so fast that Milton doesn’t have time to draw a breath. One moment he’s projecting confusion and nervous subservience-he’s just a little man sent out on a job without adequate information, an office mouse-the next he’s blind, a black sack covering his head and a powerful hand clamped over his mouth.
As they lift him into the air, his legs kick futilely.
