Poised to Kill

By Brian Lutterman

Extortionists present corporate executive Hal Dwyer with a nightmarish dilemma: turn over top secret anti-missile software from his defense contractor employer, or forfeit the life of his twelve-year-old daughter. To thwart the kidnappers, Dwyer sets out on a quest for answers that takes him from the boardrooms of southern California to the wilds of northern Minnesota. As he seeks to unravel the plot that threatens to destroy his family and his country, Dwyer confronts a ruthless foreign tycoon, a treacherous corporate CEO, and a new, deadlier breed of terrorists, who are determined to turn America's defenses and freedoms against itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salvo Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2004
• ISBN: 9781627934329

Brian Lutterman

A former corporate attorney. A Minnesota farm kid. And, in recent years, an author. Lutterman coined the term “corporate thriller” to describe his series of suspense-filled novels featuring Pen Wilkinson, a sassy, whip-smart, paraplegic attorney, described by the St. Paul Pioneer Press as “. . . one of the most intriguing new characters on the Minnesota crime scene.” The series began with Downfall, praised by Mystery Gazette as ” . . . an exhilarating, action-packed financial thriller.” Brian’s most recent book, Nightfall, was named 2019 runner-up for Minnesota’s best adult novel in the Minnesota Library Association’s annual competition. Lutterman’s first book, Bound to Die, was a Minnesota Book Award finalist. Brian lives with his family in the Twin cities. Visit his website at: www.brianlutterman.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Life was good. I threaded my Porsche deftly through early-morning traffic on the San Diego Freeway, pitying the grim-faced drivers around me. They were dour, joyless—oblivious to life’s possibilities. But most tragic of all, they were not me, James Halloran Dwyer. I drove my convertible Boxster with the top down, soaking up the sun’s smoggy rays, occupying a zone of contentment. Not euphoria, but simply a sense that life was good.

For the next two minutes, it would stay that way.

Traffic loosened a little, and I reflected a bit on life and all that made it good. I was finally free of an unfulfilling marriage, but remained close to my twelve-year-old daughter, Kirsten, whose sunny energy justified all the unhappy years with my ex. A transplanted Chicagoan, I now lived in the warm exuberance of southern California. At the moment I lived on my boat, the Kirsten D, while a large apartment on the Balboa Peninsula was being refurbished for me.

With a minute of the good life remaining, I allowed that my career situation could use a little more certainty. My position at HorreyTechnologies, a large defense contractor, was a very senior one, but within a week, Horrey would be merging with a large competitor. I’d have to find a new job. The opportunities, however, looked numerous and lucrative, and life still looked good.

My cell phone rang.

I glanced at the caller I.D.; the number was blocked. I clicked the phone on.

Hal Dwyer speaking.

Listen very carefully, said a strange voice, which sounded electronically distorted.

I gave the phone an annoyed glance. Who is this?

We have your daughter and are prepared to hurt her.

I felt my entire body weaken, nearly going limp. W-what?

Pull off at the next exit.

Now, wait— I slammed on the brakes, nearly rear-ending the stopped car ahead of me. My heart was beating out of control. Who the hell is this?

Pull off at the next exit, said the disembodied voice.

How do I know—

Shut up and pull off. You won’t get another chance.

The voice, though distorted, carried the weight of menace and authority. I pulled off on the south side of the freeway, across from the South Coast Plaza shopping complex.

Drive into the supermarket parking lot, the voice commanded.

I steered the Porsche into the lot of a Ralph’s store, scanning the car-filled landscape. Who was watching me?

I tried to pull myself together, to think. I had to demand proof, that Kirsten had really been kidnapped. And what on earth could they want? It wasn’t as though I was a billionaire. Okay, a millionaire, maybe, but so were half the homeowners in California. I was no Bill Gates.

All right, the voice said. Reach under the seat and pull out the envelope. The caller hung up.

Wait a minute, I said, my voice desperate. But the caller was gone.

I reached under my car seat and felt for an envelope, finding it immediately. The envelope contained a single typed sheet:

Load the entire BMIS comm module—code and specs—onto disks, and bring them home tonight by seven. You’ll be told what to do next. You will be under continuous surveillance. When the code and specs are checked, your daughter will be released. If the authorities are alerted, she will not be released.

My mouth went dry. I was in charge of three large contracts for the second generation of the Pentagon’s Ballistic Missile Interception System project. It was part of the program most people knew as Star Wars. The loss of the communications software module would be catastrophic, compromising communications with and control of the satellites that were the key to tracking and intercepting incoming missiles. Communications with the interceptor missile itself were also at stake. The specifications alone contained critical, top-secret satellite locations, transmission protocols, and radio frequencies. The software code would contain the encryption algorithms that allowed secure communications and control. Armed with the comm module, an enemy might be able to develop countermeasures that would leave America open to a missile attack. The BMIS comm module was critical to my country’s defense, and now I was being told to hand it over to...to whom? A hostile foreign government? Terrorists?

My cell phone trilled again. I clicked it on with a shaking hand. The same distorted voice resumed.

Now that you’ve read the instructions, take the sheet, crumple it up, and place it in the trash can on your left.

Again, I looked around but didn’t spot whoever might be watching me. I opened the car door and swung my legs out, barely able to move them. I wobbled over to the trash can and deposited the note, still holding the phone.

Any questions? the voice asked.

I stared at the phone in disbelief.

Well? the voice demanded.

My sweaty hand tightened around the phone. I can’t do it, I said. There are security precautions, to prevent this kind of thing—

Don’t waste our time, the voice snapped. You can do it. You know it, we know it. Just do it. You’ll be called at seven with delivery instructions.

Wait. How do I know you have Kirsten?

The voice didn’t answer. I waited, my chest heaving, sweating in the cool smog.

Dad? The girl’s voice came suddenly over the phone. It was Kirsten.

Kirsten? Are you all—

Enough, the distorted voice interrupted.

Now wait a minute. This is bullshit.

There was another pause. Then I heard an agonizing scream that turned my insides to cold, watery jello.

Another pause. Seven o’clock, the voice said. Sharp. At 7:01, everything is off.

It’ll have to be an exchange, I said quickly. Simultaneous. Out in the open, unarmed.

After a moment’s hesitation, I heard another scream that nearly drove me mad with anguish. My God, what were they doing to her?

The voice returned. You’ll do it our way, Dwyer. You’ll deliver the code when and where we say. We’ll release her within twenty-four hours—alive if the code and specs are legit. This is the last communication you’ll receive until seven. But you’re under surveillance.

Now, wait—

I was interrupted by the words that would tie my brain in knots for countless hours in the months to come.

This is payback, Dwyer.

Then I heard a click. The caller had hung up again. I glanced around quickly, scanning the parking lot. Off at the other end, closest to the stores, on a slight rise, a green car with tinted windows disappeared around a corner. I couldn’t see clearly what make it was, but it had elegant lines—a Jaguar or BMW, I thought. And it might have had nothing to do with the kidnappers.

Fighting to regain my composure, I waited for the phone to ring again. It didn’t.

Seven o’clock. They weren’t giving me any time to think about it. I would have to begin almost immediately if I was actually going to steal the code.

And payback—what the hell did that mean? Payback for what? Something I’d done? Something Horrey Technologies had done?

I began to punch in the number for Beth, my ex-wife, then stopped myself. Could they be monitoring my cell phone? I looked around again but couldn’t tell who might be watching me or how. I took a deep breath, put the car into gear, and pulled out of the parking lot onto the busy road. I drove for a mile or so along the road, parallel to the freeway and underneath Route 55. Then suddenly I drove over the median and made a U-turn into heavy traffic, causing horns to honk and brakes to squeal. Then I got back onto the freeway. I turned south onto the 405, got off on MacArthur, and headed into Newport Beach, toward Corona del Mar.

Beth had kept the house. A $3 million house, hefty child support, half my retirement plan, a Volvo station wagon, and a cool $2 million in cash—that’s what it had cost me to end the marriage. I didn’t need the house; my new apartment would be more than adequate. But the house had been very much a part of Beth’s vision. The daughter of a prominent North Shore attorney, she had expected—hell, felt entitled to—the upper middle class suburban American Dream, with me as the dutiful, upwardly-mobile-backyard-barbecue-soccer-coaching version of the StepfordHusband.

Even now, I shook my head at the thought. What was it about women and marriage? They were convinced that right after the ceremony you’d vanish and a different guy would appear, out of a pod or something. At first I’d been attracted, as men usually are, by her looks; Beth was a willowy natural blonde who still looked nearly as striking as the day I’d met her in a Rush Street bar. Later I had also been attracted by the prospect of her loyalty and devotion, not realizing the price expected of me.

When she wanted to buy a minivan I knew it was over.

I downshifted the Porsche and veered south onto Pacific Coast Highway for a mile, then took a right toward the ocean on Marguerite, past the little playground where Kirsten and I spent many an hour, shooting hoops and hanging out. Seaview Avenue appeared, as usual for a weekday, empty. I screeched to a stop in the alley behind the two-story Newport-style house and trotted around to the front door, which opened as I approached.

Beth appeared in the doorway, haggard and frantic. She glanced up and down the street. Christ, Hal, what on earth are you doing here?

Did you—

Get inside, she said, motioning quickly. I slid through the doorway, and she reached past me to push the door shut.

What are you doing? she repeated. They’re watching us.

So they called you about Kirsten?

She brushed sweaty strands of blonde-streaked hair from her eyes. Of course they did. She went down to the store and...never made it. Then they called and said they had her. You haven’t called the police, have you?

You know I haven’t. She was well aware of my aversion to the police, the result of too many youthful scrapes with the law.

Well, for Christ’s sake don’t, she snapped. Just go and do...whatever it is they asked. She was coming unglued, losing her usual icy self-possession.

They didn’t tell you what they wanted? I asked.

No. They just said you’d know what to do.

Did you talk to her?

She nodded, and tears sprang from her eyes. It was her. They said they’d...kill her. She broke into huge, choking sobs. I thought of taking her in my arms to comfort her, but couldn’t.

Beth, what they want—it’s, well...

I don’t care what they want! she shrieked. Just fucking do it! For once in your life, think about someone besides yourself!

I started to lash back, but swallowed my anger. All right, I said. Just sit tight. I’ll think of something.

I drove back up Pacific Coast Highway, realizing that the kidnappers had hit Beth where it hurt her most. She had vowed repeatedly that while I may have stolen from her the life she wanted, I would never take her daughter. She had become fiercely protective of Kirsten, trying to keep her away from my influence, and from me. She refused to accept that despite her best efforts, Kirsten and I had become close, and I loved her every bit as much as Beth did.

I stopped at a pay phone on Jamboree and called my office at Horrey Technologies.

Mr. Dwyer’s office, Susan speaking.

Hi, it’s me. I’ll be in a little late—maybe mid-morning.

No problem, replied Susan Conway, my fiftyish, British-accented assistant. Your calendar’s clear, for a change.

Good. Then, as casually as possible, I added, I need to talk to Ted.

Hang on, Hal. I’ll transfer you.

Wait. You know Ted—he’ll be on his phone, and I kind of need him right away for an offsite meeting. Would you mind walking down there, sticking your head in his door, and telling him I need him?

Certainly. Where will that be?

He’ll know. Just an offsite meeting. And Susan, we’ve got kind of a sensitive problem we’re working on regarding the acquisition. Could you just keep this all under your hat? In fact, this conversation never took place.

Of course.

I feel embarrassed, with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but you know those lawyers and SEC people.

I could visualize her wry smile. Of course, Hal. See you later.

I replaced the receiver and exhaled. There would be no record of my call to Ted Cline, Horrey’s director of security.

I returned to the car and continued up the coast highway, finally turning off near the pier in Huntington Beach. I circled the block twice, watching my rearview mirror carefully, then parked at a metered spot next to the beach and waited.

The Acura sedan appeared about twenty minutes later. Its driver would know enough to check for a tail. The man who climbed out and looked around was six-foot-four with slightly stooped posture and the beginnings of a potbelly. Ted Cline was everybody’s friendly uncle, with a face that was open, innocent—even beatific. I had known him since high school in Des Plaines, where we had raised plenty of hell together.

Ten years ago I’d taken Ted in when he appeared on my doorstep, fresh from being let go from his job as a Chicago homicide detective. He’d had a drinking problem, and had been suspected of, though never charged with, petty corruption. I had steered him into treatment, and eventually gotten him the job as director of security at Horrey, earning his undying loyalty and Beth’s undying disdain. Ted knew everybody; could get things done. I hoped to God he’d know what to do now.

What the hell’s going on? Ted demanded.

You’re sure nobody followed you?

Ted’s withering look gave me my assurance, and we set off down the beach, my shoes sinking into the wet sand. Kirsten’s been kidnapped, I said. They want the BMIS comm module.

Ted’s slack, hound-dog features remained expressionless. You’re shitting me.

Goddamnit, Ted, this is for real and my ass is in one hell of a sling. I spent five minutes describing every detail of what had happened.

We were both silent as we walked for five more minutes. Jesus, Hal, he said at last. These people are serious.

Tell me about it.

What about the green car?

Dead end, Ted. I’ve got no plate number—I couldn’t even swear to the make. There are thousands of expensive dark green cars with tinted windows in southern California.

I suppose. And ‘payback?’

Hell, I don’t know—I suppose it could be somebody I’ve fired or pissed off. More likely somebody with a grudge against Horrey or the Pentagon. The point is, there’s no time to think about it. What are our options?

Well, there’s the obvious one.

No way. No cops. The kidnappers are watching us, and they’d just kill her.

The cops are pros. We’re not.

They’re pros with their own agenda. I’m not entrusting Kirsten’s life to them.

Ted nodded slowly. He’d felt obliged to at least raise the option. We could try to set up the kidnappers and take them down ourselves, he said.

I was shaking my head even as the words left my friend’s mouth. No time, no manpower, no expertise, and a mistake is unacceptable.

After a moment Ted asked, with false nonchalance, Have you thought about giving them what they ask for?

While waiting for Ted, I had thought of little else. I could do it, but even with Ted’s connivance, I would be caught. And the pitfalls were numerous and huge, beginning with my inevitable prosecution for treason, espionage, theft, and failure to report the kidnapping. My career would, of course, be over. I would set the nation’s missile defense back by years, opening the country up to nuclear attack by a hostile nation, or by terrorists. But a more immediate problem lay in trusting the kidnappers to return Kirsten.

It’s crossed my mind, I said.

Ted nodded. Do you want help?

No. My reply was instantaneous and firm. This is my problem. This meeting never happened, and I don’t want you to do a thing differently.

Ted paused on the beach, gazing out over the misty horizon as if searching for an answer to our dilemma. Your basic problem is this, Hal: They weren’t willing to take the slightest risk of a neutral or simultaneous exchange. That means two things. First, you have to trust them to return her. They obviously think that you really have no other choice; that you’ll cooperate anyway. Second, they’re really, really worried about getting caught. That means—

They’re planning on killing her anyway. I completed the thought.

Ted exhaled. It looks that way. They don’t want a live witness. She probably saw their faces when they grabbed her.

I bent over, and for a moment feared I might be sick. I felt my friend’s hand on my back. I’m sorry, man.

I stood up, sucking in salty air. I turned to Ted. But there still has to be some chance that you’re wrong, that they’ll release her.

Ted hesitated an instant too long. Sure.

I fought off dizziness. There has to be something I can do. What if we gave them part of what they ask for?

Ted didn’t hesitate. These people are serious. They’d probably give you part of Kirsten.

After another minute of silence I said, What if we went to Jerry? Jerry Thorne, co-founder and chairman of Horrey Technologies, was a flamboyant, near-legendary tycoon, and he seemed to think highly of me. He was a prominent man with a lot of clout. He also happened to be my boss.

Ted thought about it. I don’t know...No, I don’t think so. Jerry’s smart and well-connected, but he’s got the company to consider first. Plus, the man is incapable of keeping anything quiet, and you can bet he’d just take over the situation.

We reversed course and started back toward our cars. Ted said, Look, if you want to do this—

No. I mean it. This is my problem. Besides, I haven’t decided what I want to do yet, anyway. I met Ted’s eyes briefly. I was lying and he knew it.

I felt despair seeping into every cell of my body. Even Ted didn’t know what to do. Goddamnit, there has to be a way. I’m willing to do anything.

Ted ran a hand through his thinning hair, careful not to disrupt the comb-over job that concealed his baldness. But there may not be anything.

Horrey’s administrative building in Irvine was a nondescript seven-story glass box, with an adjacent sprawling, single-story plant that housed the software development operation. I used my card to enter the underground garage, then parked the Porsche. A glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror confirmed that I looked like hell. I took a deep breath, tried to pull myself together, and started upstairs. I used my card to access the elevator, making sure my badge was clipped to my lapel.

I came off the elevator on the seventh floor and walked down to my corner office without, thankfully, seeing anyone. Susan was away from her desk. For a few minutes I’d be alone, which didn’t happen often to a Group Vice President-Systems/Avionics.

I sank into my desk chair, forcing myself to concentrate. I would have to steal the code. Even if there was only a one-percent chance of Kirsten being released, she deserved that chance, and I would give it to her. The problem was time; given enough of it, I might be able to figure out a way to steal the code without being caught at all. But that could take weeks or months.

Ted had designed the project’s security system and, appearances not withstanding, Ted was nobody’s fool. Every time someone accessed a file on the company’s virtual private network, whether from home or inside the plant, that fact was, without exception, duly recorded by the system. And every night, all the file accesses were run through an audit program, which looked for patterns. Anything out of the ordinary was noted—large downloads; frequent downloads of the same file, or by the same person; or log-in i.d.’s that didn’t match up with the terminal being used. And every morning Ted and his security staff analyzed the report.

A complete download of all the code and specs by the same person, even if done in stages, would send up the reddest of red flags when the report came out tomorrow morning. But by then, Kirsten would be free if they were going to free her.

I left my office and rode the elevator back down to the lobby. Striding quickly through a side door and across a small plaza, I entered the development building. The guard greeted me as I entered a maze of partitions, ending up at a cubicle near the outer wall in one corner. The cube’s occupant was a guy who, in the 1960s, would have been a crewcut NASA-engineer type, complete with horn rims, slide rule and pocket protector. The twenty-first century version of this prototype was a guy in his early thirties who sported longish hair, a scraggly beard, and a small earring. The cube’s nameplate identified him as Curt Garber. He’d been around longer than a doctor’s office magazine, but he was a programming savant.

I leaned against the doorway of the cubicle. How’s it going, Curt?

Garber looked up from one of three computer terminals in his office. All three screens were filled with numbers that made no sense to me, and to very few other people. Oh, hi, Hal. We’re still recovering from that partial shutdown two days ago over in Encryption Development.

I nodded as though I knew what the hell he was talking about. Anything up today?

Garber, with his permanent grim expression, began to launch into a litany of problems, but I cut him off. Keep up the good work, I said, giving him a wave and moving on. Garber was the comm project’s chief programmer and troubleshooter, who often went into a problem situation and crunched code personally for a couple of days to get things back on track. A vigilant and meticulous man, he was plugged into the system all the time. He would immediately notice a large download of the entire code, and he would bring it to his boss’s attention. I couldn’t act as long as Garber was at his desk.

My next stop was a glassed-in office on an outside corridor, about twenty feet away from Garber’s cube. The door was open, and behind the desk sat a young black man, talking on the phone. Jason Ross was my protégé and, for the past couple of years, a friend. Of course, it wasn’t every protégé who had won a real, honest-to-God Heisman Trophy, as Jason had done. But as with so many Heisman quarterbacks, he hadn’t made it in the NFL. So he’d gone back to MBA school at Stanford, taken a job with Horrey, and made his way up the ranks. I had put him in charge of the entire BMIS comm module project.

I walked into the office, which employed rows of jock photos as wallpaper. Jason held up a finger to indicate I should wait. I took