Troubleshooter

By Alex Ames

All he wanted was a regular job...

Paul Trouble may not hold the most exciting job in the world as a pencil pusher and finance controller in Strom Industries’ Mergers and Acquisition department. But for the former elite soldier and CIA spy still mentally recovering from the injury that forced him out of the spy-game, this is his shot at a normal life in a normal job with normal problems—like enduring girlfriend troubles, despising his pompous boss, and being killed by Excel-induced boredom.

One hundred million dollars missing...

Until the Strom Industries CEO asks him personally to investigate the mystery of one hundred million dollars missing from one of Strom’s subsidiaries. Thrown back into cloak and dagger games, Paul assembles a small team to stir things up and discover who is behind the missing money. The plan is simple: Ask a few questions, make people nervous, and see what happens.

Turning into a deadly cat and mouse game...

What first looks like an inside job soon turns into murder and mayhem where pencil and stapler are exchanged with knives and bullets, giving a literal meaning to the term “troubleshooter.”

Troubleshooter is the first Paul Trouble corporate thriller by author Alex Ames. Please also check out Alex’s novel A Brilliant Plan

All Alex Ames books are available as eBooks on all major electronic platforms. Available in print exclusively on Amazon / Createspace.

Please ‚like’ Alex Ames on Facebook or check out his blog.
www.facebook.com/alexameswriting
http://alex-ames-writing.blogspot.de/

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ames
• Release date: Nov 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311562005

Alex Ames

Alex Ames always dreamed to -- but never dared to -- become a famous jewel thief or computer hacker or super spy. After some consideration the only morally feasible option was to become a writer.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Have You Any Dreams You'd Like to Sell?

IT WAS always the same dream: The hammer smashed his left hand and he felt Every! Single! Fucking! Blow! That was why Paul Trouble had no nightstand and no bedframe, just a bare mattress on the floor in the middle of his bedroom. He didn’t want to hurt himself when his fighting, sleeping body was re-living the moments.

The event had been almost five years ago. Despite all the action he had witnessed and performed—first as a soldier and then as an employee of a certain three-letter agency that should not be named but that everybody knew anyway—this one event seemed to have reduced his previous life into a few nightmarish minutes. Minutes that seemed like hours to Paul as soon as he fell asleep. Shortly after he had recuperated from surgery, resigned from his agency job, and started his education in economics, the Dream had started wrecking his nights. He had sought treatment. Hypnosis therapy had helped against the worst, at first. His doctor had implemented techniques to enable Paul to wake himself up when he felt the dream emerging in his sleep. That had worked wonders for about a year, but then the depth of his consciousness had found ways around the barriers. Another doc had switched to medications of various kinds with mixed results. Either Paul’s bodily functions had been severely compromised—talk about what that does to your love life—or he had felt constantly tired or dizzy. For now, Paul had conceded to the Dream. His dad, who always had a grounded, practical outlook on life, had summed up thousands of therapy dollars by muttering, What needs to come out will come out. Eventually. Of course, that was also Dad’s favorite line when one of his pregnant cows was overdue.

The event had ended Paul’s career as a soldier and a spy. Man, was he missing that life. And his colleagues. And, while he was at it: man, was he missing Isabelle. But that was a different story from his new life, not connected to soldiers and spies, but connected to everything anyway somehow. It seemed that he was missing a lot. Paul wasn’t sure at this point what was worse: the recurring nightmare or his self-pity.

When the Dream’s final actions were unbearable, he usually woke up, entangled in sweat-soaked sheets or on the floor. It took the best of five minutes to slow his crazy heart rate. Paul then got up and drank a glass of warm tap-water in his living room. Even this act of holding a glass with his good right hand and moving it to his lips angered him, drawing attention to his missing left hand. He looked out of the windows of his Bayswater London apartment and waited for the Dream to slowly fade from his hyper-charged neurons. The workday was four hours away; time to join the battlefield of his mattress again.

Back into the merciless arms of the Dream.

Friday, November 27th

Chapter 2 – An Unexpected Turn of Events

GEORGE KENDALL couldn’t say what had driven him into this mess. In the beginning, it had sounded so easy—a fantastic amount of money to be made for some simple signatures. And afterwards: a life of riches that he had always dreamed but knew only from movies or novels.

It did not look simple anymore. The money was stashed away, God knew where and someone would find out for sure that the money was missing. They wouldn’t know the how or the where or the who. But they would find out that some money was gone, and then they would start looking. For him!

Kendall lived in a nice brownstone house in Forrest Hill in the southern part of London. He parked his car in the driveway and opened the front door to his little cottage that he had purchased after his divorce. A draft of cold air told him that some other window or door was open, and he frowned. Had he or the cleaning lady forgotten to close the bathroom window? Not likely in early December. Putting down keys, phone and briefcase, he slipped out of his wet street shoes and walked into the living room.

The Asian Man was sitting in front of the dark fireplace. Dressed in a suit, he could have passed as one of the ubiquitous London city bankers.

Kendall was startled. What are you doing in my house?

I came to thank you, said the Asian Man. And to kill you.

The queasy feeling in Kendall’s stomach grew to an icy block, and all color left his face. Why, why me? What about the money? You don’t have the money, yet. You need me and...

The Asian Man shrugged. Money, money, money, why is it always about the money? I will tell you a piece of real truth: it is not about money. It is all about this moment.

What? Kendall stuttered, What is so important about this moment? he stammered. Then he noticed an industrial plastic sheet that had been spread out on the living room floor over the oriental carpet.

You! In one fluid motion, the Asian Man drew a silenced pistol and shot George Kendall first in the left knee, then into the right one. Kendall screamed and slumped onto the sheet plastic like a marionette with severed strings, almost fainting from the pain.

The Asian Man stepped carefully over Kendall and bent closely to be heard. But before I let you die, there is one more favor to ask....

Sunday, November 29th

Chapter 3 – Looking for Trouble

NEW YORK. The view from the sixty-sixth floor was breathtaking and made even someone as powerful as Henry Daven feel humble—something he rarely felt these days. Whenever he was in Manhattan, he enjoyed the vista from his large corner office on Park Avenue, overlooking Midtown East, the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building and in the distance the newly erected One World Trade Center.

His job as CEO of Strom Industries made sure that Daven’s workdays were packed start to end with meetings, an agenda determined by the cycles of financial quarterly reports, business strategy workshops, acquisition talks and of course, taking care of The Family. Even though Strom Industries was a publicly traded company, listed on all the major exchanges, the majority of the company still belonged to the founding families, the Ehrenstroms and the Melanders. During the sixties and seventies, the founder families had dominated the management of the company and had made it to what it was now. Today, one and a half generations further down the road, it was a bitterly feuding family clan of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, ex- and current wives, and lately grown-up grandchildren who were calling the overall shots. The official business motto of the Family was One family, one voice—to the outside world they had always managed to generate the single deciding 51% vote that controlled the business’s past, present, and future.

As Strom Industries’ CEO, Henry Daven was responsible for the company to the outside, but the Family wouldn’t be a true owner group if they didn’t ask constantly how their primary investment and money machine was doing, churning out the better of one and a half billion dollars year after year after year. And could it be a little bit more next year? Thank you very much, Sir.

Even though today was Sunday, Henry Daven was in the office to catch up on various matters on his desk between early breakfast and the late lunch with his first wife, Marie—back on speaking terms again—and their two grown children. As he was living in a constant sort of management bubble, his front office was filled with workers who had to be anywhere the big boss was at any given moment and location, like a group of frigates around an airplane carrier. Daven glanced at his watch; his next meeting should start about now. True to her German upbringing, his assistant Trude knocked, opened the door to the office suite and ushered in Michael Ny on the hour. Your eleven o’clock, Sir.

Michael, come in. Have a seat. Sorry for the inconvenience to make you work on a Sunday.

Michael Ny was forty-four and the prototype of a Swede—big bones, large, blonde, and lanky with a constant boyish face. On a Sunday, he took the liberty coming in sneakers, jeans, and polo shirt. Michael was ultimately responsible for everyone employed at Strom Industries, including the work conditions and security aspects.

No problem, Henry. It was an interesting challenge. I mostly struggled using our global HR computer system myself instead of delegating it to one of my staff. Michael placed a small stack of files in front of Daven.

That is all you have to offer? Daven said good-humoredly but with a little tension in his voice.

Our company has one hundred thousand employees, give or take a few. Out of those, I found four that generally fit the profile you had asked me to look for. However..., Michael patted the top file, I strongly suggest you pick this man.

Daven intentionally put the suggested file aside and briefly browsed through the other three profiles while Michael made them drinks. It was Sunday, after all, and they had shared quite a bit of off-hours work time together in the past. Daven was in his mid-fifties, already grey hair with receding line and an angular face. He had managed to keep the fat from settling by a rigourous workout procedure provided by a personal fitness trainer four times a week, either live or via Skype.

Michael handed Daven the drink. He knew his boss well; Daven would evaluate the lesser options before focusing on the best one. Daven eventually picked up the suggested file.

Is that his real name? Paul Trouble? Daven gave a small, forced smile, browsing.

It is. You can’t help but play word games with his name. But since he was a US Navy SEAL, he probably only got teased at school, never again afterwards. Michael Ny also smiled.

Daven narrated through the checklist he had provided to Michael while he read on. Let’s check: Paul Trouble is based in London, ideal. Does he have a financial background or education or work in a financial position? He does indeed. Mergers and Acquisitions. Why have I never heard of him, then? Does he keep a low profile?

Mr. Trouble has been with us for a little over four years. His evaluations are fine, but far from excellent. Michael shrugged. A solid mouse. He might have been an excellent soldier, but we did hire him as a financial controller.

Daven continued his reading. Okay, I asked for a background in police investigation or comparable. Paul was a soldier. Navy SEALS. Special forces, eh? Not exactly police, Michael.

Michael shrugged. I can guarantee you, he will be a resourceful person. Read on.

Well, look at that! The plot thickens. CIA. And then with the British Security Services. MI5 and MI6. A spy. Are we allowed to know this?

He made no secret out of it. It wasn’t as if he had the job description spy in his agency references. The titles of his various roles sound innocent. Liaison this, Analyst that. But we don’t know exactly what he did. Naturally.

I guess so, Daven said, turning over some pages.

You don’t sound convinced, Michael said. Should I continue to search? Or hire someone external instead? Maybe through our security partners here in New York at SECCON?

Henry Daven closed the file, tapped on it, thinking. Don’t bother. We’re running out of time. I can stall until Friday. By then I will need a resolution; otherwise, Strom Industries needs to disclose the problem to the stock market and the Family.

That serious? Michael asked. Usually Daven was quite open regarding issues within his company with his direct reports; in fact he often asked their help in finding solutions.

Daven nodded. That serious. Decision time! We go with Trouble. Please arrange a meeting between myself and Paul for tomorrow at my hotel in London. Trude has the details.

You still don’t want to tell me what this is all about? Michael said.

I can’t this time. No offense.

None taken, Henry. Michael got up and collected the three other files and fed them into the shredder that was standing beside Daven’s desk. Have a safe trip, I’ll get Trouble for you.

Michael Ny chuckled over his own wit while walking out. Henry Daven didn’t.

Monday, November 30th

Chapter 4 – Another Day at the Office

ON MONDAY morning, Paul Trouble entered the small kitchenette at the end of the row of cubicles to fill up his morning coffee. His British co-workers preferred tea, of course, but Paul—ever the American, ever the soldier—stayed true to his taste for bad filter coffee. It was the only way to survive after his normal night-fight. The London head office of Strom Industries was located right in the middle of the finance district, close to the Stock Exchange, and covered ten floors in a high-rise opposite of the Gherkin cucumber building.

Nancy, the chubby but cheerful team assistant, was busily stacking the dishwasher with plates and glasses from this morning’s celebration breakfast.

So, is Spain really the success that Douglas claims it to be? asked Nancy, pointing at the small Spanish toothpick flag that lay beside the remaining cake crumbs.

Paul poured himself a mug of coffee, leaned against the kitchen desk and shrugged. Douglas and the Vice President of Strom Chemicals seem to be happy, but in the end we paid a premium price for an uncertain bet into the future. Douglas was the head of Mergers and Acquisitions which made him Nancy’s and Paul’s manager. He was a thin, boring, sour man who seemed to live only for the next deal on his agenda.

Well, let’s hope it pans out. Keeps our jobs safe. Nancy busied herself. Know your next assignment?

Paul shook his head Not this year, I hope. I need to wrap up the numbers for the Spain job, and then I have vacation from next week to early January. And I need it after this year.

Anything special planned, my dear? Nancy knew that Paul had split with his former girlfriend a while ago and was naturally curious about affairs of the heart.

The usual: back to the States, visiting my dad. Ticket is booked for next Monday.

Then I hope this last week before your vacation will make it easy for you, Nancy smiled.

Paul smiled back. In reality, he had no alternative plan.

Paul returned to his desk. Someone had posted a note on his phone: 007. Please call 1-555-1266732 ASAP. P. Pierce’s handwriting. Paul recognized the New York head-office phone number. He picked the post-it note up and waved it over the partition. Did he or she say what it was about?

Pierce, a red headed and freckled English prototype in his thirties, just grinned. T’was a lass with a nice Texas accent from our rebel colony. Wouldn’t say. Maybe your Spanish numbers were inflated like Purchasing Suzy’s chest?

Hope not. It would drive me crazy picking up that folder again after staring at it for three weeks in a row. So would thinking about your comparison. Paul was the money man in Strom’s mergers and acquisitions department and collected the financial numbers for the ‚yes’ or ‚no’ to buy another company.

As Paul was still pondering the message, Douglas came over from his corner office and paused at Paul’s desk. Paul, he said in his dry clipped voice that was the caricature of an Army sergeant. Would you be able to write up the results from last weeks Spain deal by E.O.B. today? I’m attending the big man’s year-end reception at the Trower Club tonight, and I would like to have facts handy. Douglas was Paul’s first regular business line manager after he had joined Strom after his MBA education and his impression so far had not been favorable. Paul’s previous bosses in the military or in the intelligence community had had impressive records of achievements and had shown great balance in supporting and supervising but not meddling in the details of Paul’s jobs. But Douglas was a typical pencil pusher, spending his twenty-five year career climbing the ladder at Strom, without anything really to show for it. He was sucking up wherever he could, and it was an immense ego-stroke for him to be part of tonight’s reception. Strom’s CEO held a year end event for top management at London HQ, and five weeks later a New Year’s reception at the New York Co-Headquarter.

The complete report will be done by Wednesday, latest. Is a draft okay for you this evening, Douglas? I’ll put the core talking points into the management summary. How is that for sucking up with your boss, Trouble?

Sure is, Paul. Douglas moved on to his next cubicle destination, to repeat his pompous but effectively useless act of management. Pierce made a slurping sound from behind his partition. Paul thought about throwing over his stapler, but then settled for a pack of post-its.

Paul picked up the message and dialed the number. It was five hours earlier on the US East Coast—would anyone be home? To his surprise, the phone was picked up immediately.

This is Paul Trouble from London Head Office returning your call.

A lady on the other end, whose name he didn’t catch, gave a quick squeal of joy. Was he that popular? Thank you for calling back, Paul. I will put you right through. Through where, she didn’t say.

After a few moments and clicks, a tired male voice came on the line. Now that sounded more like five o’clock in the morning.

Paul Trouble? This is Michael Ny speaking.

Paul recognized the name; Ny was either first or second in command of Global Human Resources. Good morning, Sir. Early morning for you today?

No rest for the wicked. Ny laughed. Can I ask you something outright without preliminaries? Are you free for a meeting? Immediately?

Nothing I cannot move. Paul glanced at his computer. His schedule was completely empty. Only the Spain deal wrap-up and Douglas’s report.

That’s great. Are you able to come to the Westin Hotel near Piccadilly Circus right away. Ask to see Mr. Barney Smith at the reception.

"Sure. Can I ask what this is