Steven Gore - Final Target

“Did you meet anyone else in London?” Zink asked Matson as they walked from the bathroom into the FBI’s kitchen to fetch coffee.

Matson hesitated for a moment, then answered, “No. Not really. Granger told me to keep a low profile. Just slip in and slip out. So that’s what I did.”

Matson leaned back against the counter, hands crimped over the edge.

“There’s a whole world out there I didn’t know even existed,” Matson said. “All these people doing international business. It’s hard to explain. Everybody’s in their own heads.”

Zink filled a cup and handed it to Matson.

“People meet. All they have in common is the deal, whatever the deal is. Always on the move, like they’re never really anyplace. They just take the deal from one airport to another, one hotel to another.”

Zink smiled to himself as he walked Matson back to the SatTek room. Matson wasn’t an idiot. He had avoided answering the question. Zink knew he’d answer it eventually, once he realized that the government wouldn’t let him keep any secrets. Matson would be dotting i’s and crossing t’s until he developed carpal tunnel of the brain. He just didn’t know it yet.

Zink knew how to work informants, and decided that it was too soon to push Matson. He made an excuse to go back to his own office to give Matson time to adjust to the idea that eventually he’d have to give it all up.

He left Matson sitting, arms folded, staring up at the ceiling.

Matson had returned to the hotel after dining with Fitzhugh. He had glanced into the lounge on his way toward the elevator and spotted the woman still sitting at the bar. He stopped in the doorway. A man stood to the left of her, his hand gripping her elbow. She jerked her arm away and rotated her stool away from him.

Matson found himself walking toward them. He heard the man say in a slurred American accent, “Just one drink, honey. Come on, just one drink.”

Before the woman could answer, Matson stepped up next to him and said, “Let it go.”

The man turned toward him. Red-faced. Fists clenched. “Mind your own business.”

Matson held up his hands. “Take it easy.” He made a show of scanning the others drinking in the lounge. “Whose side do you think these folks will take?”

The scraping of chair legs on tile broke the silence. The man glanced back over his shoulder at two men who were now standing and glaring at him. He swayed as he turned back toward Matson, then shrugged and walked away.

She turned toward him. “Thank you.” She spoke in what Matson took to be a Russian accent.

“He just had too much to drink,” Matson said, then noticed that her hands were shaking. “Would you like me to sit with you?”

“Very much.”

Matson climbed onto the bar stool next to her. “Can I get you something?”

“Please. Whatever you are having.”

Matson looked down the bar and spotted tall glasses of Guinness before a young couple sitting at the end, and ordered two pints.

“I’m Alla,” she said. “I saw you here earlier.”

Matson blushed, then glanced away as if checking the bartender’s progress on their order. “I’m Stuart, and I saw you, too.”

“I was so relieved when you walked up.” She smiled. “I thought you were about to tackle that man.”

“Tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure what I would do. We have an expression in the States. It’s called playing it-”

“-by ear.”

He drew back and looked over at her. “You know that one?”

“I love language, especially American expressions. Out in left field. The wrong side of the tracks. Between a rock and a hard place.” She tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Let me see…how about, Hey bud, what line are you in?”

Matson didn’t respond.

Alla grinned. “That was a real question.”

“Oh.” He blushed again. “I’m the president of a company in California. London is the base of our international operations.”

The bartender set two pints on cardboard Guinness coasters.

Matson wasn’t sure what to say next, so he escaped into watching the bubbles rise to form a soft, rich head.

Alla pointed at the glass. “Sometimes the bubbles go down.”

Matson shook his head. “They can’t. It’s air.”

“Things aren’t always what they seem. Watch closely.”

She leaned down toward the glass, eyes focused on the body of the beer. Matson’s head followed as if magnetized. He found himself lost in the swirling of her perfume.

“Pick a bubble. A little one.”

Matson focused on one caught on the glass. It broke free and swept downward.

“Son of a gun.” He leaned back and looked at her. “How’d you know?”

“I studied engineering in college in Ukraine. In Dnepropetrovsk.”

“In what?”

“Ne-pro-pe-trovsk. Just say Neper. I’m from a village nearby.”

“You mean a village, village?”

“Yes.” Alla laughed, her eyes twinkling in the candle flame. “A village, village. Thatched roofs, cow in the backyard, chickens trying to sneak into the house.”

“And from there to a college where they let you study beer?”

“It was sort of political.”

“Come on…” Matson said, unable to suppress his incredulity.

“It’s true. Students had so much hope after the collapse of the Soviet Union, only to see gangster capitalism take its place. We all found ways to express the horror we felt. My way was fluid mechanics. The outside world only saw the large bubbles rising in the center. The elites. But that created a vortex that forced nearly all of the small bubbles downward. The middle class became impoverished and the lower class became destitute. And when their standard of living rose, it was paid for with the suppression of the freedom they had earned. My experiment was a metaphor.”

Matson studied her face. “And what kind of bubble are you?”

“One that escaped.”

He raised his glass. She clinked hers lightly against his, then each took a sip.

“Why here?” he asked.

“For Americans, London is merely a charming place to visit. For me, for all Central Europeans, it’s…I don’t know how to capture it in English…I guess you could say that London is our Ellis Island.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how can a village girl afford to live here? This is an expensive town.”

“I saved a little money and I live simply.” She shrugged, and the light went out of her eyes. “Eventually I’ll have to go back to Ukraine. I dread it. It’s suffocating. It’s what we call peregruzhennost. I don’t think there is an English word…Maybe you would say…overburdening. That’s it. Overburdening. Eventually it will break me.”

H ey, Graham. There’s a rumor going around that the attorney general is looking for a new poster boy for corporate crime.” The voice, high-pitched against the low chatter of a busy pressroom, belonged to Kenny Leals, a New York Times reporter, and the only journalist who had Gage’s cell phone number. “The Enrons and Global Crossings and Arthur Andersens just ain’t cutting it anymore. The way I hear it, they’ve decided that it’s time for lawyers to take a hit-and they’re hard on the prowl for a guy to take the first swing at.”

Gage sat forward in his desk chair, but kept his tone casual. “Have they put a name on it?”

“Not yet, but I was shooting the breeze about SatTek with an old-timer at the Chronicle and she said you and Jack Burch were pals, so I figured I’d give you a buzz. Rumor is that he’s somehow connected to the company. But I can’t confirm it.”

Leal let the words linger, as if anticipating an easy confirmation, but Gage wasn’t about to become a second source.