Terminal Value (23 page)

“Anyone send you any questions we should be concerned with?”

“Nope. It was pretty straightforward.”

“I suppose,” Art said. “But you should have told me you were going to give Rich two years' severance. That was way too fucking generous. And it raises too many questions.”

“Questions no one will ask,” said Christine.

“I just wished you'd told me first, that's all.”

“I was planning on telling you tonight. So tell me about your meeting with Dylan.”

“Well, that's the real reason I wanted to see you. Dylan told me. Seems he spoke to Rich this afternoon.”

“What?” asked Christine, with apprehension. “What did he say?”

“He was pissed. He wanted to know why I didn't tell him first, why we had Rich escorted out of the building. And why we couldn't find him another job here.”

“But you handled it—right?” asked Christine. “Now we can get on with our plan?”

Art cleared his throat. “Not quite. I think we may have other problems with Dylan.”

“Really? What kind of problems?”

“Founder problems. He used to run his own company. Now he's beginning to feel cut out as a member of our senior management team.”

Christine laughed. “I wonder why!”

“Yeah. I handled it. Told him Rich was wrong for the position and we decided he couldn't be trusted.”

“So that's that.”

“I'm afraid not. Dylan's suddenly taken an interest in getting a closer look at our financials and demanded to see them.”

“What are we going to do about that?”

“Like I said over the phone, I told him I'd consider it, but it would be a board decision, that they insisted we keep our financial data held as tightly as possible.”

“Did he believe it?” asked Christine.

“I don't know. He clearly wasn't happy about it. First the road show, now this. I think he's getting suspicious.”

“Yeah. We should have seen this coming.”

“Great. Just great,” said Art. “So what are we going to do?”

“Let's keep an eye on him. Maybe it'll pass. But, just in case it doesn't, we need to create something that'll scare him. Something that could put his job and his stock at risk.”

“You mean like a performance problem?”

“Yeah. One we can document.”

“That could be troublesome. He's doing well against his plan right now,” said Art. “But remember, we hold a few cards that can change that in a hurry.”

“That's right,” said Christine. “We do, don't we?”

Art nodded. “Let's play the first one.”

The video ended.

* * *

“I thought I was going to be a concert pianist,” said Naomi.

Dylan smiled, glad she was finally getting more comfortable chatting with him. “Really?” he said, deliberately sounding surprised. His gaze wandered toward Ivan's closed door. “I used to play the piano myself. When I was a kid, I mean. I liked it, but—well—there's no money in it, of course.”

“You never know. It was my parents' dream to see me on stage,” Naomi said, a quiet wistfulness creeping into her tone. “When they got sick, I got a job as a secretary to make ends meet. I don't think they ever forgave themselves. . . .”

* * *

Heather's mind whirled. Where had these files come from? Had Tony seen them? And what the hell was Ivan up to, documenting these obviously highly private meetings? Did he have every room in the building bugged? Had Christine and Art known they were being recorded? She doubted it, given the things they had said. And what the hell did Art mean by holding “a few cards”?

She looked at the long list of .avi files. She didn't have time to sit and watch them all. The plan had been to copy Tony's files onto a flash drive, but .avi files are big. She pulled a pendant from around her neck, flipped it open, and plugged it into the USB port. She glanced at the monitor to her right. The script was still working, the IP address shifting every time she clicked on a file. Suddenly she thought to double-check the screen on her right to make sure no one was searching the directory as well. Her gaze scanned back to the route she had taken through the directory.

Nine levels above, she spotted an IP address: 192.191.0.0. And there it was again, beside another directory. And again and again. Following the same path she had taken. Even as she watched, six levels above in the hierarchy of directories, it appeared again: 192.191.0.0. Someone appeared to be following her.

“Uh-oh.” Her heart leapt into her throat. “I hope you are keeping an eye on him, Dylan,” she said softly.

* * *

“My dad was a no-nonsense guy who wouldn't abide any sissy stuff,” said Dylan. “He taught me at an early age that emotions just get in the way. You don't get ahead if you get sidetracked. It was a hard lesson to learn, but it made me strong.” He put his hands around the mug of coffee Naomi had made him and stared into its swirling depths.

“Oh,” said Naomi softly. “I'm sorry.”

Dylan smiled. “You misunderstand. He was a blue-collar guy who wanted better for his son. Because of him, I knew how to get what I wanted. When he died, it was just me and my mom. I couldn't have supported her the way I did—the way I still do—if I'd wasted my time with music or gotten with the wrong crowd. I owe him a lot.”

“I'm sure you do. But, Dylan, you need to have balance. We all have our vulnerable side. If you pretend you don't, you get into all sorts of trouble eventually.”

Dylan chuckled. “I guess I need to get in touch with my inner
chi
.”

Naomi smiled silently.

Suddenly, Dylan's phone vibrated against his hip. Heather. Almost done. Five minutes more and she would be clear. He glanced at the door to Ivan's office.
Got you.

* * *

“Come on, come on!” Heather whispered, her hands grasping the screen as if to speed it up. The status bar changed colors rhythmically, giving the appearance of three dimensions as it swirled. It had always fascinated her that computers still used so many anachronisms like the barber pole, the sand clock, the trash bin, the floppy disk, the paper folder—all icons, now—incorporeal, shimmering metallic colors on a high-res screen.

The bar disappeared. Heather pulled the flash drive out of the port. She closed it and replaced the slender chain around her neck, relief flooding through her. She put her hands under her long hair, settling it on her shoulders. Time to get the hell out of virtual Dodge. She shut down the browser and emptied the cache. No worries. She glanced at the right-hand screen.

192.191.0.0. had joined her in the SAVE2012 directory.

Damn.

She hit the button on the optical drive. It whirred and spat out the CD. She hit and held the power button on the tower.
Come on!!!

The power button went dark.

Fumbling to put the CD into her briefcase, she ran to the door and opened it.

Ivan Venko stood in front of her. Tall and gaunt, his dark hair slicked back, and his bony face morose, he towered over her, blocking any hope for a speedy departure. Ivan reached out and shoved her back into the office.

Chapter 24

May 13, 3:35 p.m. New York

“You know, Naomi, you're probably right,” said Dylan, feeling relaxed with Ivan safe inside his office and Heather on her way back to hers. “I should find more balance in my life.”

Naomi nodded, touching the copper hoops on her wrist. “You've been under a lot of stress, Dylan. Everybody knows that. When we're upset by something terrible, it dredges up every painful thing that's ever happened to us. It's human nature. I admire you for—”

The telephone on Naomi's desk rang. “Oh, hello Mr. Williams. No, he's not here; he's meeting with a salesman in the conference room.”

Dylan tensed. He had assumed Ivan was behind closed doors in his office. Now he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach about Heather's security. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Six minutes since Heather had signaled him.

Dylan bounded out of the chair and rushed to the office and opened the door. To his horror he saw an empty office.

* * *

Ivan's eyes flickered with surprise. “Miss Carter.” His deep voice echoed through the room.

Heather flashed a broad smile. She shoved the CD into the pocket of the briefcase and struck a flirtatious pose. “Were you looking for me?”

“Apparently,” he said, moving ominously toward her.

“Well then perhaps you'll be able to help me find Sandeep.” She kept her tone light, while adrenaline pumped up her heart rate. “Or did he send you to find me?”

Ivan grasped the doorknob and took a step forward, further blocking any possible escape route. Heather quickly considered her options. Either back up, or let him walk into her. Her heartbeat increased as Ivan stepped into the office and closed the door.

“What are you doing?” Heather asked, as a sense of fear scuttled up her spine. She slowly backed up deeper into the office.

“You're asking
me
that? I think the question is better suited to you.” He reached a hand toward her briefcase, and she took another step back.

“Give me the CD, please, Miss Carter.”

“It's not mine to give,” Heather stuttered, her answer caught in a nervous swallow.

“No?”

“No. It was Tony's. I need to find Sandeep to see if he can access its contents. You know Dylan is looking for—”

“Please. Let's not play this game.”

Heather heard the sound of her heart pounding as the blood rushed through her inner ears. Should she provoke him to attack? That would give her an excuse to scream or to claim that he had cornered her there. But how could she explain the CD?

“I know where you were—what you were looking at. I'm the chief security officer of Mantric, Miss Carter. I'm not asking you. I'm telling you to give me that CD.”

“Why? Why are you so determined to keep Dylan from viewing Tony's files?”

Ivan stepped forward, driving her further back. Heather realized that with each step backwards, she would be closer to the corner between the bank of cabinets and the wall.

She dashed frantically to the left; Ivan parried, pushing her back against the table, his body trapping her, his hands groping for the briefcase she held close to her body.

“You son of a bitch!” Heather cried, shoving his hands away from her body.

She threw up an elbow, whirled, and jammed her fist against his head. Ivan's head snapped back, slamming against the corner of a cabinet and drawing blood from a small but deep gash. He stumbled for only a second before coming at her again, shooting an arm around her neck and moving behind her. His wiry appearance belied his strength and skill in physical combat. She realized she was no competition for him. She pulled the CD out of the briefcase and tried to smash it against the table, but he caught her arm and twisted it, snatching the CD from her. His grasp tightened, and he wrestled her into the middle of the room.

Keeping his left arm around her neck, he patted her down with his right, pressing the thin fabric of her dress close to her skin. Revulsion hit her when he reached into the pocket on her thigh. With a primal cry of anguish, she pushed back against him, kicking at his shins with her three-inch stacked heels.

He didn't let go. His fingers spread as they searched the empty pocket and then moved away. Heather jerked away again, and this time he let her go. She staggered against the computer desk and fell into the chair, shaking.

Ivan's lips curled up into a depraved-looking grin. With an annoyed shake of his head, he went to her briefcase.

As he rummaged through its contents, searching for anything in addition to the CD, Heather's thoughts went to Dylan. Was he all right? Logic told her that he was not, that Ivan had learned of their plan. Fear gripped her. If Ivan were a murderer, would he hesitate to add Dylan to his list?

“So, Miss Carter,” he said when he had searched the briefcase to his satisfaction. “I have the CD. So the only other record of what you saw is in your little mind. That won't do.”

He took a menacing step toward her, a crooked smile on his face. She had neither breath nor will to scream. She began to fall backward when, through the buzzing in her ears, she heard the sound of the door opening, and in the distance, a voice called, “Leave her alone, you bastard!”

* * *

Dylan met Ivan's gaze. A cool sense of control and calm came over him, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. He was aware of the catch in Heather's hoarse breathing, of the twitch of doubt in Ivan's lips, of the double stream of blood working its way slowly down the side of his face from the gash in his temple.

Dylan stretched to his full six-foot-four-inch stature, towering four inches above Ivan. “Leave her alone,” he repeated.

Doubt flickered across Ivan's gaunt face. “I wasn't—” He looked at Heather and then back at Dylan.

“Be careful, Dylan!” Heather called.

Ivan turned toward her and, in that moment, Dylan leapt forward and slammed his fist into Ivan's kidneys, taking the man by surprise. Ivan dropped to his knees.

“I wasn't going to hurt her,” he said, slowly rising to his feet, wiping the blood from his forehead. He nodded at Heather. “This woman broke in here to gain access to secure Mantric files. She resisted when I asked her to hand over the CD she used to copy files. I was simply trying to make her explain to me exactly what she saw.”

“Tell that to the cops.”

“Dylan,” whispered Heather, with a warning shake of her head.

“This is an internal matter,” said Ivan. “There's no need for the police.”