The Deadly Trade

By Ken Morris

Tim Mack is a financial analyst running from a past full of death and drink. But when he leaves the Wall Street rat race hoping to slow down his life in San Diego, he finds that a calm and peaceful existence is just not in the cards. While researching a local biotechnology firm that has just exploded into flames, Tim begins to untangle a lethal web of deceit. A frightening, secret triumvirate of mass murder intricately combines a high-finance broker, a Middle-Eastern terrorist organization, and a dying biotechnology firm willing to do anything to keep afloat.

How far will this alliance go? Tim soon finds out that a bug that "makes AIDS look like a hangnail" might only be the beginning. He teams up with Betsy O'Brien, his spunky and beautiful coworker; Joe Mack, his wheelchair-bound brother who's a former DEA agent; and Detective Bob Moore, an aging but tenacious cop in charge of leading the formal, but furtive, investigation.

Together, they devise a plan to stop the release of the mutated virus—a plan that brings the lives of Tim, his loved ones, and the rest of the country down to the bare wire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bancroft Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781890862411

Ken Morris

Following a successful career on Wall Street, Ken Morris became an outspoken critic of aspects of the financial system, including the New York Stock Exchange. He is a frequent media contributor on political criticism and financial reform. He is the author of the novels Man in the Middle and The Deadly Trade. Ken currently lives in California with his wife and four sons and has had the fortune of coaching over forty sports teams over the years for his sons.

Book preview

chapter 1

HARDLY ANYONE—NOT EVEN COPS—DARED VISIT the discarded men and women living beneath this overpass in Southeast San Diego. But this late January day, a one-eyed man in a rotting Celica slowed to ten miles per hour and studied a guy leaning against a rusted chain link fence. Close enough to talk, he pulled over and got out. Before drawing attention to himself, he tugged a jacket-hood over his head, shadowing a heavily pockmarked face.

Hey, man— he said, trying to sound pleasant—you wanna earn a few bucks?

Maybe, the derelict said. Who’re you?

Who am I? he asked, stifling a laugh. I’m Santa Claus, come to deliver a present.

A blue stocking cap, long sleeves, and ghetto grime made it hard to tell if the bum was white or black.

You got any relatives in this area? the man asked.

Unh-uh. The drifter bowed, gazing at toes poking through shredded shoes.

That mean no?

No.

You saying you don’t have anyone close to you here?

Nah.

Good. You have cancer or any other big disease?

No. Shakes sometimes. Through toothless gums, he spoke with a lisp.

Ever had a driver’s license? the man asked, masking his disgust.

No.

Any of these nothings know your real name? The one-eyed man waved a hand, indicating the other vacant faces.

Nah. They always try’n’ to steal my stuff.

Can you use a fifty? The man held out a crisp bill.

Fifty bucks?

Yeah.

I gotta kill someone?

No. See those two guys in the car?

Yeah.

We’re on our way to a big-deal party.

Party? Me? The shreds of the vagrant’s plaid shirt flapped, exposing skin that confirmed he was a white guy.

Fifty dollars now— the man handed the recruit the bill— fifty more later. You guys are part of the entertainment. I bet a few buddies I could find three guys could drink them under the table. They said ‘no way.’ Can you drink a bunch of a-holes under the table?

Fuckin-A. What kinda booze?

Everything. Beer. Wine. Whatever. You game? The procurer smiled like this was an invitation to Mardi Gras.

All I gotta do is drink?

You’re holding the money that says you’ll beat these guys into terminal hangover.

Man. I knew this was my lucky day. Gettin’ paid to drink. . .

The one-eyed man bobbed in the direction of the car. Now that we’ve got that settled, listen carefully. Your name is Sam. Those other two in the car, their names are also Sam. Everybody you meet tonight is named ‘Sam.’ Got it?

Sam 3 nodded and broke into an unsteady path towards the car, as if improvising a jagged dance. The man nudged him into the backseat, where Sam 3 squeezed alongside Sams 1 and 2. All three smelled of month-old body odor and Thunderbird.

The moment he engaged the engine, the man spun the air conditioning vents onto his face. Twenty-two minutes later, having listened to the Sams blather about their collective good luck, he drove around the back of a seemingly deserted, turquoise-tiled building.

Lapping in air, hoping to obliterate the stench, he herded the three men around back. When they reached the entrance, a doctor beckoned all four men inside a darkened hallway.

You’re certain they meet our requirements? The doctor had a Dutch accent.

Positive, One-Eye answered. They got no dental records, since they got almost no teeth. No family. And they’re still breathin’.

Get them inside.

Hey, man, the last Sam said, this is a shit place for a party.

Don’t worry, my friend, the man said. I brought you here to give you food first. You’ll be able to drink more on a full stomach. Smart, uh?

I guess. I could use a little wine now—

Not yet. Gonna save it for the contest.

I can have a drink now and still drink lots later.

No. Eat. Then drink. The man pushed all three recruits towards a far room with a thick door. Once he corralled them, he pulled a hankie from his pocket, wiped his hands, and tossed the cotton rag in the trash.

Sam 3 looked at the doctor’s stethoscope on the way into the room. Why we got a doctor? he said. I hate doctors.

He’s here to save the lives of those you destroy in our little drinking game, the one-eyed man said, wishing this third Sam would just shut up and do his job.

Sam 3 attempted an awkward Muhammad Ali shuffle, shadow-boxing the thin air. They try and keep up with me, he said, they gonna need a doctor, or an undertaker.

A moment later, inside the sealed room, the Sams gummed sweetened pabulum from plastic bowls. The one-eyed man watched, grateful to be behind a two-way mirror. From overhead vents in the improvised cafeteria, tainted air filtered down. An hour later, the three homeless men began to pant and feel the first blisters. After that, the other symptoms progressed rapidly. Two hours later, the man heard the doctor mutter, This is beyond our expectations.

Shortly before 2:00 AM, the one-eyed man re-entered the room, looking like a Halloween elephant in his gray plastic coat, boots, and gas mask. Having been required to videotape the nightmare, and having witnessed his recruits pound the wall and scream as their bodies decayed from within and without, he appreciated the precautions.

He bent over the first man, carefully tying a thick surgical mask around the nose and mouth. He repeated the process with the other two. Prevent leakage, the doctor had explained to him.

All that blabbing didn’t get you jackshit, did it? said One-Eye, tying the mask onto Sam 3.

One at a time, he looped a rope under their armpits, dragged the bodies outside, and stuffed each into a sealable bag before tossing them in the back of a pick-up truck.

Job almost complete, he realized. A brief drive along a darkened dirt road, the final drop-off, and then home. Ten thousand dollars didn’t weigh much, he mused, but it sure felt good.

chapter 2

SAN DIEGO DETECTIVE BOB MOORE, built like an aging ox, ambled around the dead bodies. Despite taking great care, he deposited several size-ten shoe impressions into the mud.

Stench from the detective’s cigarette blunted the scent of the ocean breeze pushing itself inland, across the gully where the sun was baking away the morning mist. Moore gave the surroundings one final glance before fixing his attention back on the corpses.

The young female officer, the first investigator to arrive on the scene, pressed her palms against her knees. Chunks of her vomit spotted her blue pants and black shoes.

Here, Moore said, his voice ragged and sympathetic. Don’t worry. I nearly lost it, too. And I’ve been doing this shit for a long time.

Plump but pretty, Moore thought as he handed the officer a tissue before turning his attention to the hiker.

You touch anything? he asked the fourteen-year-old who made the grizzly discovery. The boy hugged his arms around his chest and shivered, looking away from the human pile in the ditch and trying to focus on the questions. Nnnnot really. I thought they were bums, then. . . well, when I saw their faces. My gosh. An animal must’ve eaten them.

Something troubled the detective about the bodies. The absence of bloat or decaying stench meant the three had died recently, probably within the last twelve hours. What was especially shocking was the state of the victims’ skin, if that was the right word for the mass of sores and lesions on every visible body part. Moore had worked Homicide off and on for fifteen years and knew how to read death. These three men suffered, then died. No animal chewed their flesh. These weren’t bite wounds—more like giant cankers.

You sure you didn’t move anything? Moore asked again, searching the area with his eyes.

The boy nervously fingered a pimple. Only touched that top guy to see if he was alive. I tapped him with my foot. That’s when I saw the face. I feel sick.

At that moment, trailing dust and crunching gravel distracted Moore. A tan sedan was making its way down the narrow fire-road. You stay here, he said. I’ll be right back. . . and don’t touch anything, not even with your shoes.

Moore drew a last puff, then lifted his foot and pushed the butt onto the bottom of his heavy black shoe. Careful not to litter the crime scene, he placed the remnant in his breast pocket.

Moore struggled up the slick hill, tripped, and used a massive hand and wrist as a column of support. Brushing the dirt off his light-colored suit, he glanced back and noticed that the female officer had recovered and was preparing to cordon off the crime scene.

Once he reached the road, Moore hustled over to the car door and pulled it open.

Hi, Doc, he said, nodding to Dr. Tom Wheeler. This one’s weird.

Where are they?

In that ditch. Moore pointed.

The two men slid sideways, along loose dirt and low brush. At the bottom, they paused to catch their breath.

I don’t know exactly what happened, Moore said, "but these stiffs were fully-clothed, and from what I could tell, there was no gunshot wound, no strangulation, no intrusive bodily trauma. My opinion’s they bought it somewhere else and got dumped.

Look at this area, the detective continued. Wet from that little rain we got the other day—no footprints except ours. See over there? Moore took a step to his left, nodding his head in the direction of a narrow trail of flattened weeds. I think they got rolled, one after the other, hit the bottom, and sorta piled onto each other.

Maybe, the coroner agreed. Let’s go take a look.

As he bent over the bodies, the wind blew the doctor’s gray hair across his brown-spotted scalp. He studied the largest of several wounds on the unshaven face of the man on top. You’re right, he said. These are disease sores. And it looks to me like they died from whatever it is they caught.

By the way they’re dressed, Moore said, they’re probably bums and winos. My guess? Three John Does.

Wheeler bent down and caught a glimpse of the man at the bottom. This guy, he pointed, has a surgical mask on. Why’s that?

Moore bent down on one knee and peered under. And there’s another mask beside that second guy. Patients maybe?

If so, then somebody’s sitting on one helluva malpractice suit. Wheeler looked as if he had no interest in touching anything. We need to get some body bags. If anybody touched anything, with a glove or a stick or whatever, I suggest you burn it.

You think this is contagious? The detective glanced over to the young man who discovered the bodies. He’d tell the boy to take maximum care in removing his shoes before leaving them behind.

All three of these men suffered from the same thing, the doctor said. They were either exposed to something as a group or passed it from one to the other. They’re no longer breathing, and I’d just as soon not join them, if you know what I mean.

Yeah. I know. Moore wiped his hands against his trousers. Forty minutes later, the detective supervised the removal of bodies from above the gully.

In his peripheral vision, something caught Moore’s attention. He spun north and west, turning his back to the crime scene. He saw the flash and flames several seconds before he heard the blast.

Grabbing his radio through the open driver’s side window, he reported the incident. As smoke began to billow above whatever disaster was taking place less than a mile away, the dispatcher replied: Detective Moore, you’re the closest investigator. Proceed immediately to Anderson Medical Park off Torrey Pines Road. Officer Suarez is already there. A crime scene unit, EMTs, and Fire Department are all on the way.

Moore slid into his car and took off, churning up a load of dust in his wake. In that moment, he wished he could wash away every trace of this particular morning.

chapter 3

THE LOW RUMBLE BEGAN SLOWLY and built into a prolonged growl. Paradise has its drawbacks, Tim Mack thought. With all fingers pressed on the desk’s glass covering—and vibrations resonating through his hands and up his arms—he mumbled, Welcome to Southern California.

The walls rattled in response.

Unsettling as it was, this aftershock was nothing like the 6.2 on the Richter scale that hit a few weeks ago. That one lasted ten seconds and gave Tim second thoughts about having relocated. And earthquakes weren’t the only adjustments he’d had to make in the last three weeks.

Tim skimmed the cover of the research report he was working on:

GREYSON PHARMACEUTICAL

Industry: Biotechnology

Rated: Strong Buy

Analysts: Tim Mack (CFA) and Dr. Tak Chang

Risk: High

Current Price: $22.10

Twelve Month Target Price: $40

The tremble continued, and Tim clasped the picture of his wife and son as if the vibrations might knock it from the center of his desk. Four or five seconds later, the aftershock subsided but not his sudden emptiness.

Through the intercom, Carole Sommers’ voice was a welcome interruption. Mr. Mack, said his secretary, Ms. O’Brien on line one. She says it’s urgent.

Tim immediately realized that if Betsy O’Brien was calling in the middle of a trading day, this had to be important. Betsy made markets for Atterberry-Stanton’s clients in the same biotech stocks Tim researched, and they often worked as a team, exchanging insights. Betsy cared most about short-term market variables. Tim analyzed stock fundamentals. At times, the short and long term considerations overlapped, making their dialogue crucial to understanding investors’ buy and sell decisions. And since Tim had once been a stock trader himself, Betsy relied on him more often than someone in her position normally would. She was, he already understood, very, very good at what she did. He didn’t know, however, if her tough exterior was motivated by the demands of the job or was at the core of her personality. Tim suspected it was a little of both.

He pushed the Greyson Pharmaceutical pages aside and thanked Carole through the intercom while picking up the phone.

What’s up, Betsy?

What’s up? A disaster is what’s up. How much do you know about Isotopic Research? she asked.

Not much, Tim began, looking out at an eerie gray blanket of smoke on the horizon. The stock symbol’s I-S-O-T, and the founder’s name is Aaron Berelson. I saw Dr. Berelson on local television about a week ago. And the only reason I remember that much is that he looked awful. He had a scab in the middle of his forehead—one of those things you can’t help but stare at.

Add this to what you know: there’s been an explosion at their labs and the stock has stopped trading. She highlighted what she’d heard from the rumors spreading across Wall Street.

That explains the sirens, Tim said. I can see smoke from my window—I assume that’s coming from their labs.

It is, Betsy said.

Were there casualties?

"I’m hearing yes but hoping no. There’s a report that Berelson’s missing, but nothing confirmed as far as I know."

You own stock? Tim asked, focusing on what he might control, praying this was a case of over-speculation.

Yeah, I’m lugging twenty thousand shares at a cost of twenty-seven bucks each. Not only that, but Iso Research’s an investment banking client of ours. We were their banker on an initial public offering.

Not good, Tim said, taking notes. When was the IPO?

Over a year ago, Betsy answered. Typical micro-cap offering. We raised thirty or forty million bucks to fund research. When the stock resumes trading Monday, it could open near zero. That’d blow a half-million dollar hole in my trading book, not to mention the pissed-off investors we sucked into the IPO. They aren’t gonna be too jacked if the company goes belly-up.

Peter Stanton and Carter Ramsey—do they know?

Not sure. They’re in a meeting, discussing next week’s Greyson Pharmaceutical secondary. You mind taking care of that detail?

You wanna get back to me in an hour?

By Monday, I either bite the bullet and sell what I can, or buy more of this crap into the panic. Whatta you think?

In the background, Tim heard one of the salesmen interrupt. Bets. Got 50,000 Klein for sale. I need a tight price or my guy’s gonna shit in his pants.

Hold on, Bub. . .

Tim heard muffled sounds through what he guessed was Betsy’s hand over the mouthpiece, and then she returned. Thanks, she said. Gotta hop. See ya later.

Tim’s phone went silent. As he set his pen down, he mulled Greyson Pharmaceutical—an Atterberry-Stanton client scheduled to sell stock next Wednesday. As soon as he plowed through that offering, Att-Stan had two more companies scheduled to come to market the following week. Now this.

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair. It was too long, but he’d probably let it grow another inch before finally going for a cut. His son’s words came back to him: Nobody wears their hair like that, Dad. Totally uncool.

Reaching for the picture sitting next to his phone—the one he had rescued from the small quake—Tim stared at the images of Brett and Emma Mack. In the photo, his son sat at a table while his wife leaned over and planted a wet kiss, mugging it up for the camera. Brett had Tim’s brown eyes and strong chin, but Emma’s electric smile. Tim’s hands trembled more than the big quake a couple of weeks earlier. He placed the photo to his lips, kissed the glass twice—once each for the son and wife—then set the silver frame down. I’d give anything for a drink, he thought.

Get your ass back to work, he whispered. He leaned forward and pushed himself up and out, leaving his wrinkled jacket draped over the chair. With sleeves rolled high, he stepped outside his office.

Carole, I’ll be with Tak for the next half-hour, he said. Could you please check out whether Carter Ramsey and Peter Stanton are available later today? Tim pointed to two blinking hold buttons. In the meantime, you’ll have to take a message. I won’t be ready to talk to panicked investors before Monday morning.

Certainly, Mr. Mack, Carole said.

And sorry for the rush, but could you also do a news search on Isotopic Research for the past year? Also, I’ll need several quarterlies—the last few 10Qs—and some annual reports. Also, year-end 10K’s filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission.

I’ll have them within the half-hour, she said.

Tim winked thanks and shuffled his way to Dr. Chang’s office. It was time to begin researching a tragedy.

chapter 4

WITH A HAND ON HIS HIP, Detective Moore inhaled and exhaled tobacco smoke over and over again. He watched a dry leaf blow off a nearby tree and catch fire. Several cinders combusted and flitted away like airborne fairies. Streams of water fought against flames, only to vaporize before dampening what was left of the building’s infrastructure.

With the fire raging, progress in understanding what actually preceded it was slow. The fetid smoke—black and thick—blew inland, pushed by Pacific winds. A few nearby trees ignited, and, for a while, it looked as if the fire would spread to adjacent buildings. Fortunately, that didn’t happen, but by the time the inferno burned itself out, the destruction of the main building would be total.

It’s gonna be late tonight before we control this thing. Detective Moore could barely hear the chief of the fire crews say above the crash of a collapsing floor. It won’t spread, but no way this is gonna go away anytime soon—it’s as if there was a gas truck parked inside that lab. Moore silently agreed. To him, it looked as if the sun had been yanked from the sky and stuffed inside the building, melting anything and everything.

We’ve got Arson checking the grounds, the fire-chief continued. They’ve been instructed to share anything relating to your investigation.

Thanks, Moore said. You’ll let me know?

You got it.

Moore took a long drag on his cigarette. He’d been there for over an hour but had little information beyond that collected secondhand from the people inside Isotopic Research’s remaining lab.

The detective turned to Marco Suarez, the first patrolman on the scene. What’s that guy’s name you pulled from the rubble?

Vost. Nils Vost.

How do you spell that?

Moore needed to collect details as close in time to the original disaster as possible. Having witnessed the explosion, he knew the exact time: 8:42 AM. From a brief conversation Suarez had with Vost, Moore learned the names of the four missing scientists, all presumed dead. Added to the three drifters, this now totaled seven corpses.

After a pause, Officer Suarez answered Moore. Spelled V-O-S-T.

Moore wrote the name down. What’s that? Dutch? he asked.

Maybe. Maybe Swedish. I didn’t ask.

He say anything when you pulled him out?

He said something about being damned.

Anything else?

Not much. He did mention that he was out getting a smoke when the lab combusted.

You mean smoking a cigarette?

Yeah. I think that’s what he meant, Suarez said.

And he said ‘combusted’? Moore asked. That’s a strange word.

"He had an accent, and I think he meant exploded."

Moore studied Suarez’s long face. The officer, stooped over, looked exhausted. You need some rest, son?

I think the fumes got to me. I’m kinda woozy. Headache. A little short of breath.

You get nicked or cut pulling that guy out?

Don’t think so, sir. Lucky, I didn’t get my hands cut pulling Vost from under the rubble of that wall.

Moore followed Suarez’s gaze to a pile of broken cinderblocks thirty or forty feet from the lab.

This guy Vost must have been on the backside of the wall, or he’d have been dead from the blast, Moore said, stroking his chin.

Yes, sir, Suarez said, his hands shaking. He was.

He mention why he chose that spot to grab a smoke?

No, sir.

Moore didn’t say anything, but Vost was either extremely fortunate to have walked around the wall at that moment or was deliberately shielding himself from the blast—not too effectively, as it turned out. Moore made a mental note to eventually determine which it was.

You sure you didn’t get cut? Moore asked a second time. You have a bite or something—a couple of them. On your neck. Right side. Under the ear.

Suarez reached up and rubbed. He looked at his fingertips. Not bleeding, but it hurts some.

If you don’t feel better in a coupla hours, Moore said, see a doctor. Now go home and get some rest.

Suarez nodded thanks and sagged off.

Moore frowned. Dead bodies and exploding labs—two strange mysteries in one day. Normally, he took all these ugly events in stride, but something about this day bothered him more than usual.

He sighed. This was a three-pack of cigarettes day—and he was only half a pack into it.

chapter 5

DR. TAK CHANG’S DOOR WAS AJAR, so Tim entered without knocking.

Impressive piles of prospectuses, journals, and computer printouts covered every available surface of the scientist’s office. On a far wall, several educational degrees hung in plastic frames, the most impressive being the MD and the PhD in chemistry from the University of Beijing. At about 5’9", Tak Chang was four inches shorter than Tim, and his broad back and neck blended into rounded shoulders that inflated every time he made a move. His thick black hair spiked from his oval head as he bent over, reading through notes.

Tak.

Spinning with almost athletic grace, Tak responded instantly. Yes, Tim.

Tak had deeply-set black eyes and spoke through a smile. Though he never asked, Tim guessed the man was late forties, early fifties—at least ten years older than he was.

We’ve got a problem and, per usual, I’m scientifically challenged.

Tak shook his head. Come in, he said in a deep voice. He had an accent, and occasionally had difficulty with verbs. Since the two men typically discussed technical topics new to Tim, he appreciated the fact that the doctor spoke more slowly than those whose native language was English.

"You learning—you are learning quickly, I think, Tak said. Already better than Mr. Demry."

Thanks, Tim answered, weaving his way around the maze of clutter. Beside his disorganized desk, Tak pointed to an armless swivel. Tim sat and rolled closer, wondering about the absence of pictures. He saw just the one small photograph—four by six—in a cheap wooden frame, showing Tak, bowing humbly, a medallion draped around his neck. The doctor wore a pair of wrestling tights over his enormous chest and arms.

I need your help, Tak—sounds like a familiar refrain, does-n’t it? Tim put a friendly hand on the older man’s shoulder. The knot of muscle convinced him that Tak remained impressively fit.

"I happy. . . I am happy to help. It is my job."

This’s about Isotopic Research, Tim explained. We did an offering for them, I understand.

Yes. More than a year ago. It went well enough, I think. But the company has had some misfortunes to go with their successes.

Well, they’ve got the Moby Dick of misfortunes now. That fire in the hills is from their labs. Tim explained about the explosion and asked Tak to walk him through Isotopic’s businesses.

Tim knew little about his predecessor in the research department, Charles Demry, but he had access to the man’s files. Having retrieved an Isotopic Research prospectus issued ahead of the stock offering a year ago June, he flipped through the hundred pages of slick paper designed to entice investors. Tak, meanwhile, launched into a confusing explanation of what the company did.

Please, Tim pleaded, a few sentences into the discussion. In plain English. You’re losing me.

They do radioimmunodetection.

That’s a word?

Tak nodded. They inject a patient with a radioisotope which conjugates to a disease-targeting antibody. The antibody attaches itself to an antigen and delivers the radioisotope for imaging. The antigens are on tumors.

The tumor cells are cancerous? Tim asked.

"Yes. Then physicians. . . the physicians then image the tumor with special equipment."

This is a means to get a picture of the tumor? To get size and location?

As a fly flew past, Tak snatched it in mid-air. He smashed the insect flat on his desk, then took a tissue from a packet and wiped the smear.

Basically, yes, the scientist continued. You see? It is not so difficult.

As Tim listened the next few minutes to Tak’s lecture on antigens, radioisotopes, and imaging technology, he continued to thumb through the prospectus, scanning two paragraphs referencing something known as a gamma camera, used to display radioisotope concentrations. It allowed a doctor to detect the presence, location, and approximate size of a lesion. Aaron Berelson’s company had a proprietary chemistry that Dr. Chang claimed was outstanding.

Any other sources of revenue? Tim asked. Testing. They have a contract that pays them to test for another company. Tim added this note to the page of scribbles he had already compiled. They have two labs, Tak went on. One imaging. One testing.

What type of contract research?

Contagion. High contagion.

You mean like viruses?

Yes, Tak answered. Virus, maybe bacteria. Toxins that are deadly in the extreme—it is best, I think, for you to stay away from the scene.

Stay away? Tim silently asked. Good advice, but that’s never gonna happen. . .

Once Tim returned to his office, Carole explained that Peter Stanton and the Head of Syndicate, Carter Ramsey, knew about the Isotopic situation and wished to meet with Tim in the afternoon, once he’d done some preliminary research.

You found all the data I needed? Tim asked.

She nodded, patting a four-inch stack of papers. That’s everything you requested. I went back an extra year on the news search, in case you needed it.

Tim thanked Carole and began to head for his office, but her stuttering beckoned him back. Hmm. Mr. Mack?

Yes, Carole.

I don’t know if you’ve had time to think about this yet, only being here a couple of weeks, but, Carole looked at her fingernails, I’d like to be considered for the position as your permanent secretary—if you think it’s a good idea.

Carole’s eyes slid down to her knees. She was a waif-like woman with deep lines running across her pale face, making her look older than her forty-four years. Tim heard she had worked for Charles Demry his entire five year stint at Atterberry-Stanton.

Tim smiled and nodded. I’ll attend to the paperwork first thing Monday.

As he left, he heard her whisper, Much nicer than that dreadful Mr. Demry.

He didn’t know why, but Tim had heard that sentiment expressed several times: Nobody cared much for Charles Demry, and not one person had expressed an ounce of sorrow over his recent passing. That seemed depressing to him. It was as if his predecessor was a

Reviews for The Deadly Trade

[nativeroses_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An interesting mix of financial and international intrigue, as an equity analyst uncovers a bio-weapon terror plot.