Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

“You’re an ambitious guy,” Duggan said.

“I am. By the time you retire and move on, I’ll want your job. I know the restaurant side, too, and I’m good on wine.”

“Double a bartender’s wages sounds low for all of that,” Duggan said.

“I’d rather be a bargain at first. Pretty soon, you’ll know what I’m worth to you.”

Duggan was impressed. His source at the Beverly Hills had already told him that Mike Gennaro was highly regarded there; the man had an outstanding work record, plenty of charm, and a good ear for a customer’s story. Duggan handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s the rundown on benefits: health insurance, retirement package, etcetera. This will be the kind of place that will repay loyalty and hard work over the long run. I’m aiming for a very low turnover among employees.”

Mike looked it over. “This is good. Have you hired any bartenders yet?”

“This is the first day I’ve interviewed.”

“If you’ll let me hire them, I’ll have you half a dozen by the end of the day and all of them by the end of the week.”

“I like your style, Mike, but I’ll want to meet your choices.”

“Of course.”

“How soon can you start?”

“I’ll go to work today on the hiring, but I’ll need to work my shift at the Beverly Hills for the next two weeks. They’ve been good to me, and I don’t want to stiff them, especially since I’ll be taking a couple of their guys with me-assuming you approve.”

“All right,” Duggan said, “you’ll go on salary as of today. You can work days here and nights at the Beverly Hills until your time is up there.” He handed Mike a file folder. “Here are all the personnel and tax forms you need to fill out. I’ll have a written contract for you to sign in a day or two.” Duggan stood up and offered his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mike.”

Mike stood and took the hand. “I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Duggan.”

“Call me Tim. We’re going to be working together closely.”

“Tim it is. If I can have a fruit crate for a desk and a phone, I’ll start calling bartenders.”

Duggan handed him another file folder. “Here’s the list of those who answered the ad, along with their resumes.” He led Mike to the office next door. “Use this for a while,” he said.

Mike took off his jacket and tossed it onto a file cabinet. He loosened his tie, sat down, and looked at the list in the folder. His first call was on his new cell phone, a text to the e-mail address he had been given in Leipzig: “All is well. I am fine,” it read. He signed it “Nod.”

Mike Freeman arrived in Los Angeles aboard Strategic Services’ Cessna Citation jet 4, which he piloted himself. He landed the light jet at Santa Monica, then left the airplane in the care of his copilot and got into the waiting Mercedes.

“To the hotel, sir?” the young driver asked.

“No, to the office. I’ll do some business before I go to the hotel.”

The Los Angeles offices of Strategic Services were located in a five-story, wholly owned office building on Santa Monica Boulevard. In addition to the five stories of the building, two of which were rented out pending expansion plans, there were two underground levels, and Mike went directly there. His operations manager received Mike in his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Freeman,” he said.

“Good morning, Harvey,” Mike replied.

“I thought you’d be going to the hotel today. I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve caught you off guard, is it?”

Harvey laughed. “I know to be ready for you at any time, sir.”

“What have you got for me?”

“I think it won’t be necessary to hire a supervisor for the watch room at The Arrington. One of our better people here has applied for the job, and he’s qualified.”

“Tell me about him.”

“His name is Richard Indrisie-we call him Rick. Rick is young but smart. He’s a tech-school graduate with a broad and firm grounding in computer science, and he’s been with us for a little over two years. We’ve trained him for design and repair work, and he’s as good as guys who’ve been here a lot longer.”

“You said young-how young?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Would you describe him as mature?”

“More than that, he’s a very cool customer, quick to grasp a situation and quick to deal with it.”

“Let’s talk to him.”

Harvey picked up a phone. “Send Rick in.”

Rick Indrisie knocked on the door and entered.

“Rick,” Harvey said, “this is our CEO, Michael Freeman.” The two shook hands.

“Sit down, Rick, and tell me something about yourself.”

Rick sat down, looking very much at ease. “I was born out in the valley,” he said. “Public schools and technical college. I’ve loved computers since the first time I saw one. I built my first one when I was fourteen, and I’ve never seen a broken one I couldn’t fix.”

“What do you do in your spare time?”

“I’ve got a little business on the side,” Rick said. “I buy vintage small appliances, restore them to perfect working order, make them look new, and sell them, mostly on eBay.”

“That’s enterprising,” Mike said.

Harvey interrupted. “I should tell you that Rick has a gift for catching anomalies on-screen,” he said. “He seems to know when a movement or a gesture picked up by a surveillance camera is a threat. He’s nipped crimes in the bud more than a dozen times since we put him on monitoring a year ago. And he can repair any piece of equipment in the watch room. He’s great with software, too.”

“Thank you, Rick,” Mike said. “We’ll let you know later.”

Rick shook hands and left.

“I like him,” Mike said. “Hire him when you’re ready.”

“That will be today,” Harvey said. “All of the wiring at The Arrington is complete, and equipment installation starts tomorrow. I’d like Rick to be there to supervise as everything is connected and tested.”

“Go right ahead,” Mike said. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.” He left the lower level and took the elevator to the top floor, then walked to his corner office. It was smaller and less luxurious than his New York office, but it had everything he needed. He spent a few minutes returning phone calls, then met with the engineers who were working on the fire plan for The Arrington.

“We’re up and running,” said the team leader. “All the automatic fire extinguishers are installed, sixty-one of them, and we have video hookups to every area where fire could be a problem.”

“What about explosions?” Mike asked.

“I don’t have to tell you that all bets are off if we get a significant explosion,” the man said. “What we get is complete chaos while we marshal forces and get them to the scene. We’re likely to lose our cameras in such a scenario. Everything is in the hands of the response team. The local fire department will be there in five minutes or less, of course.”

Mike nodded. “Are you satisfied that our response teams are trained and ready?”

The team leader nodded. “They’re assigned sectors, and the plan is for them to be on scene in no more than ninety seconds, usually less.”

“Have the Secret Service people vetted the plan for the presidential cottages?”

“Yes, sir, and they were pleased. They’re also relieved that they won’t have to be the first responders to an event, allowing them to concentrate on body protection.”

“Very good,” Mike said. He dismissed the men, made a few more phone calls, then called his car for the trip to The Arrington.

From the front gate he noted the drill of every one of his people. He found them businesslike, but polite. His site commander was waiting outside his suite, and another man dealt with his luggage.