Andrew Grant - Even

“Building one,” the voice said.

The buildings each had a four-foot-tall number stenciled in white paint above their main door. We emerged through the inner gate in front of building number three. Number one was at the far end, to our left, with a pair of old, battered Toyota Landcruisers and a shiny silver Prius parked outside.

“What do you think these places are for?” Tanya said.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Presumably building one will be their admin block, if that’s where they’re meeting us. And if this is where their people prepare for deployment, they’ll need a warehouse and an armory.”

“There,” Weston said, nodding at number two as we trundled past. “No windows.”

“See the roll-up doors on three?” Lavine said. “That’ll be their workshop. They’ll need to prep their vehicles for different climates.”

“And the others?” Tanya said.

“Didn’t get a good look,” I said. “Accommodations? Briefing rooms? More storage?”

“Who knows?” Weston said.

“Maybe the place is just a front,” Lavine said. “Could be what this whole thing’s about. Could all just be stuffed full of drugs and illegal immigrants.”

“Could be,” I said. “Let’s ask Mr. Taylor…”

The doors to building one swung open automatically, but as we followed Lavine inside I got the impression we’d be dealing with people who weren’t big on hospitality. The space we entered was more like a cell than a reception area. The gray paint on the floor was wearing thin, the walls were bare, unfinished cinderblocks, and the three fluorescent lights on the ceiling had no covers to diffuse their glare.

A plain metal table had been placed in the center. Its legs were bolted to the ground. A man was sitting behind it, keeping one eye on us and the other on an oversized flat-panel monitor. He was wearing shiny black paratrooper boots, sand-colored utility pants, and a matching short-sleeved shirt with fake epaulets. It had a logo on the left pocket-a bold, capital W with some kind of dog’s head superimposed on it-and a stenciled name label stuck to a Velcro patch on the right. It said SMITH. A cordless headset with a boom mike was hooked behind his left ear. When he finally stood up to greet us, you could see a Sig Sauer pistol in a holster on his right hip.

“Good morning, folks,” he said. It was the same voice we’d heard on the intercom. “Still is morning, just about. And Mr. Taylor is already on his way over. Just need to see some ID while we’re waiting…”

He was happy with Weston’s and Lavine’s, but raised his eyebrows when he saw the card Tanya had returned to me in the car along with my wallet and other papers.

“Royal Navy?” he said. “You’re a bit off the beaten track, aren’t you, mate?”

“Telling me,” I said. “Tried to go home this morning, but this lot couldn’t manage without me.”

He was still trying to decide whether I was joking when a door opened behind him and a slender, gray-haired man appeared. He was wearing an identical pseudouniform, but his was a little darker as if it hadn’t seen much outdoor action. The name badge said TAYLOR, which saved him the trouble of an introduction.

If Lesley’s hit man had been a squirrel, this guy was a mouse. It wasn’t that he was particularly small-five eight, five nine at the most-but there was something about the nervous energy in his wiry limbs and tight, pinched face that made him seem jumpy and unsettled. And the impression grew stronger as he guided us through the main office, darting between rows of steel desks like an animal in a laboratory maze. We had a struggle to keep up as he scuttled around the final few banks of metal filing cabinets and disappeared through the door to a meeting room.

The tables in the meeting room were also made of metal. There were four. Each was wide enough for two people. They were arranged in a diamond shape with only their inner corners touching, leaving a square gap in the center. The space had been used to display a Plexiglas sphere. It was two feet in diameter, and was sitting on a wheeled wooden frame like the kind that hold ancient globes in libraries and museums. A chunk of rock was suspended inside. It was a rough pyramid shape, with patches of pitted gray occasionally visible through a thick, uneven crust of white and yellow crystals.

“Interesting,” Tanya said. “It looks like a tiny mountain peak, covered in snow. Maybe the Eiger or somewhere like that.”

“It could have been, once,” Taylor said. “This piece is from Austria, not far from there.”

“What is it?”

“Wolframite. Iron-manganese tungstate. It’s a mineral.”

“Is it valuable?” Lavine said.

“Depends what you value,” Taylor said. “We use it as a symbol.”

“Of what?”

“Wolframite was the original source of tungsten.”

“As in your company name?”

“Exactly. Tungsten has the highest melting point of all metals. Did you know that? Nearly sixty-two hundred degrees. Seems appropriate, given what we do.”

“And convenient,” I said. “If your office ever burns down.”

“Well, let’s hope that never happens,” Taylor said, taking a seat on the far side of the rock. “Now, make yourselves at home. Let’s get down to business. How can I help you?”

“We’re interested in a team of contractors you recently let go,” Lavine said.

“Can you be any more specific?” Taylor said.

“More specific?” I said. “How many entire teams have you fired in the last couple of weeks?”

“I’m not sure,” Taylor said. “It’s a busy time for us. I’d need to check with HR. Perhaps if you tell me exactly what you need, I could get back to you in the next couple of days?”

“Agent Weston,” Lavine said. “Have you still got that buddy in procurement, at the Department of Defense?’

“Sure,” Weston said. “Matter of fact, I owe him a call. I was waiting till I had something to talk about.”

“Want to start this conversation again?” Lavine said.

“One,” Taylor said. “One team. Six people.”

“Why fire them?” I said.

“There was a complaint from the client.”

“About what?” I said.

“An allegation of inappropriate treatment of civilians.”

“Expand on that,” Lavine said.

“The guys were working at a hospital. In Iraq. Top team. Flagship contract. One night, three teenagers were brought in. Gunshot wounds. Took the rounds when their car-which they’d stolen-tried to run a roadblock. A U.S. Marine got hurt in the process. Story is, my guys heard about it, came on the ward, and tried to set things straight right there.”

“But you don’t believe that,” Lavine said.

“No. My guys are professionals. And they’re on good money. They wouldn’t put all that on the line over some marine they’d never met.”

“More likely to do it over someone they did know,” I said. “You lost a couple of guys recently, didn’t you? The ones Redford and Mansell were brought in to replace.”

“First thing I thought of, myself. But no. We’ve got investigators on the ground. They took a real good look, and it didn’t fly.”

“So why fire them?” I said.

“The client insisted. Lose the guys, or lose the contract.”

“So you chose the contract,” Lavine said. “That’s cold.”

“Not really. What we’re doing over there is more important than the short-term welfare of a handful of individual personnel.”

“Why not move them to another contract?” I said.

“It doesn’t work that way. We’re not a typical operator.”

“Meaning?” Lavine said.

“We’re there for principle, not profit. Our goal is the long-term advancement of the region, not the maximum percentage. We’re trying to give something back to a people who’ve been hit pretty hard, you know? Which means we only take on certain kinds of contracts. Ones that will benefit the local population as well as ourselves. Things like hospital security. Mine clearance. Ammo disposal. Prisoner transport.”