Scott Matthews - The Assassin's list

Drake absorbed the information. Why would a company like ISIS hire felons? They obviously had the resources to do background checks. Of course, Newman might be wrong, trying to create a scapegoat.

“I think I’ll check out ISIS and then head your way. Before I get there, run a check on Sam Newman, the head of security at Martin Research. He’s not a suspect, at least in my book, but see what you can find about him.”

“No problem. Be neat to see you someday, maybe even get some work done.”

When the connection ended, Drake had the fleeting thought it might be wise to take another day off. Margo didn’t hide her feelings. When she mentioned getting work done, it usually meant that he forgot a deadline or appointment. Sizing up ISIS seemed like a piece of cake compared to what the rest of his day promised if he returned to his office.

Drake drove on, thinking about ISIS. He’d heard of ISIS, but that was like saying you had heard of Halliburton. Multinational corporations with more money than most third world countries were almost impossible to get answers from. The Portland ISIS office would say they needed to talk to corporate, and someone would get back to him. He’d be as lucky as he had been when he called about his coffee maker, and wound up talking to someone in India.

Take a deep breath and relax. Follow the thread. See if you can find a way to help your client. Big corporations are a part of the twenty-first century landscape. Drake shook his head, punched in XM 70 to listen to commercial-free jazz, and accelerated the 993 up to ninety before backing off when he ran out of open lane ahead.

He crossed over I-5 and continued east, entering the area where ISIS had its corporate office. Stands of oak groves surrounded the office buildings and restaurants, and beyond them, high-end residential developments. ISIS had chosen carefully and well. It was the kind of place where trusted businesses located.

The four-story brick building, with brass letters proclaiming it to be the regional office of International Security and Information Services, Inc. wasn’t ostentatious. Except for the fact that ISIS was the only tenant. All of the surrounding office buildings housed multiple businesses.

Drake drove down the ramp into the parking garage and pulled in next to a black Suburban with darkened windows and an ISIS logo painted in gold on its door. When he got out of the Porsche, he stretched and studied the ISIS logo. The round logo had a hieroglyph of the Egyptian goddess Isis, representing the idea of eternal life and resurrection, of life and blood, over arched with the words International Security amp; Information Services, Inc. It wasn’t the logo Drake expected from a company promising clients protection and security. Instead, it suggested life ever after, granted by an ancient Egyptian goddess. What had some advertising consultant been smoking when he came up with that one, Drake wondered.

He also noticed the Suburban had antennas on the roof and rear window, twenty-four-inch wheels and heavy-duty red shocks that made armor a strong possibility. At least the company had some of the right equipment to do its job.

When he walked to the parking garage elevator, Drake noticed direct access to the fourth floor via keypad. Visitors and employees had to enter on the first floor. With a glance and mental salute to the surveillance camera over the elevator, Drake took it to the first floor and found a receptionist, who looked a lot like the NFL player they called the Refrigerator, waiting for him. The semi-circular redwood kiosk was four feet tall, but the giant sitting behind it made it look like furniture for a first grade classroom.

Drake had to announce himself before the man looked up from the paper he was reading.

“Hi there, I’m the attorney for a client of yours that had a security malfunction and wound up with someone dead. I’d like to see your manager.”

The giant in the sharkskin suit squinted his eyes, as if to say you’re not cute, or welcome. Nevertheless, in a soft voice he offered a non-standard business greeting.

“Mr. Sayf is busy at the moment, Mr. Drake. Step back and raise your arms to shoulder level. The security guard behind you will clear you for a meeting with Mr. Sayf.”

Drake hadn’t heard the security guard approach, but when he looked over his shoulder, the guard was standing right behind him. He had to smile as he raised his arms and allowed the scanner wand to trace the outline of his body. Ten years ago he would have sensed the man’s approach. Good thing he wasn’t back in the field. A loss of focus like that would get you killed.

He spotted a two-inch round lens, disguised to look like the ISIS logo, mounted in the center of the kiosk. The lens aimed at his midsection. He assumed it was an x-ray device, used to see if he carried a weapon. At least he’d noticed that, he thought.

When the security guard finished his search, the sumo at the kiosk nodded and spoke into his cordless headset.

“Drake is here. Shall I send him up?” He listened for a moment, then told Drake to take the elevator to the fourth floor. Someone would take him to Mr. Sayf. There was a smirk on the sumo’s face when he turned back to his paper.

Three floors later, the elevator opened onto an executive suite that outdid most large corporations, and certainly the top law firms in the city. This time a pretty secretary sat behind an impressive desk. It was a slab of smoked glass on a black onyx pedestal with only a flat-screen monitor and a small black phone console on it. Drake noticed the long slender legs and model’s body as he approached. Her black hair was cut short and her hazel green eyes challenged him to keep his eyes off her generous cleavage. He tried hard to comply.

“Mr. Sayf will be with you in a moment, Mr. Drake. Is there anything I can get you while you wait?” she asked, in a voice that would seduce a vice cop.

“Not right now, thank you,” Drake said, returning her offer with a smile that said you’re beautiful, but your boss is the main attraction here.

Behind her, Drake saw open glass doors and a black man with a phone to his ear, sitting behind a beautiful rosewood desk. He was turned toward a wall-to-wall glass window that looked over a wooded area and a small stream. Off to the right of the wooded area was a helicopter pad with another black Suburban parked beside it.

The man who turned around in his chair had to be at least six foot seven or eight. He reminded Drake of a professional athlete, NBA or NFL. His creamed-mocha polo shirt barely contained a muscled upper body. When he put the phone down, the wafer-thin gold watch and thin gold chain around his neck reflected sunlight from outside.

The secretary told him he could go in, and Sayf turned to watch Drake enter his office.

“I have an appointment in a few minutes, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I can give you a few minutes,” he said.

The man was a poor liar.

“Oh, I think you were, or at least your staff was. My name’s Drake. I’m here to find out how you screwed up so badly that my client’s secretary was murdered. Why your expensive security system conveniently malfunctioned.”

“Who are you?” Sayf said, rising from his chair.

“I’m the attorney Martin Research hired. What do I call you, Kaamil or Sayf?” Drake said, looking down at the nameplate on the desk. “I’ve never figured out which name you Muslims prefer to use.”

For a moment, he thought the man was going to dive over the desk at him. Just as quickly, the anger in Sayf’s eyes dimmed. Not as cool as he thinks he is, but he’s controlled, Drake observed.

“I am Muslim, Mr. Drake. You may call me Kaamil. You can disrespect my religion, but be careful when you start blaming my company for that woman’s death. Slander has a hefty price tag.”