Serendipity Opportunity: Triple Play, #2

By Howard Weiner

The high school slacker not expected to amount to much perpetrates a highly successful and remunerative fraud on the FBI. The only problem is that his success unknowingly pits the intelligence services of the U.S. and Russia in a battle to the death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard Weiner
• Release date: Oct 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386474326

Howard Weiner

Howard Weiner is a recent addition to the literary genre of fiction. Writing mysteries, thrillers, crimes—with a touch of romance—an approach described by one reader as “one bubble off.” Many authors sharing the genre have characters whose fortune is determined by others. They literally have dodged the bullet that otherwise would have killed them. Weiner’s characters make their own fortune—good or bad—and they live with the results. Weiner’s own experiences are blessed with no small number of noteworthy characters and events. He brings these slightly off-kilter individuals to life, complete with their own stories and dramas. Like the child prodigy in his first novel, It Is Las Vegas After All, who comes to the starting edge of adulthood and then loses the approval of his doting parents, the sponsorship of one of America’s great institutions of higher education, and gains the enmity of his girlfriend’s father—an international arms dealer—to become a home-grown terrorist operating on U.S. soil. A survivor of rich, nuanced bureaucracies in the public and private sector, Weiner writes about characters whose career choices and decisions are morally questionable. A student of personal behavior in complex circumstances, Weiner brings these often cringe-worthy characters to life. Some are amoral, others immoral in a narrow slice of their lives, yet they otherwise look and act like people we all know from work or even childhood. Like one of the female leads in his novel, Serendipity Opportunity, an out-of-the-box thinker who flunks most of life’s basic relationship tests, yet she is someone you never want pursuing you in the cause of justice. There’s a former foreign security official who uses his protected status as a witness for federal prosecutors to provide cover for his own mayhem and murder in Weiner’s third novel, Bad Money. Many of Weiner’s stories are born out of real life events: The mix-up in luggage claim at the airport in, Bad Money, the chronic high school slacker in Serendipity Opportunity whose one stroke of good fortune creates his opportunity to perpetrate a complex series of frauds, or the brilliant student in It Is Las Vegas After All who uses his prodigious talents toward an evil end.

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Copyright

SERENDIPITY OPPORTUNITY. Copyright 2017 by Howard D. Weiner. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher/copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact Howard D. Weiner, 200 Hoover Ave, Unit 1907, Las Vegas, NV 89101.

ISBN: 9781522007753 (paperback)

ISBN: various (ebook)

Serendipity Opportunity is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design by R.L. Sather of www.selfpubbookcovers.com.

Editing by Wendy F. Weiner.

Books By Howard Weiner

F I C T I O N

THE TRIPLE PLAY NOVELS

It Is Las Vegas After All¹

Serendipity Opportunity

The Big Lowandowski

HAIR ON FIRE NOVELS

Bad Money

By Any Other Name²

THE BLOOD RELATIONS NOVELS

One for the Price of Two

A C A D E M I C

Introduction to Structured COBOL: A Programming Skills Approach

¹Also available on audiobook

²Forthcoming, Fall 2018

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the many people who provide encouragement and continuing support. I hope their dedication is reflected in this book—except for the mistakes and errors which are entirely mine.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Books By Howard Weiner

DEDICATION

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

He was floating on the boundary between sleep and consciousness. Joe McRory could hear sounds—even if the words and noises were a bit of a jumble. His limbs weren’t responding, and truth be told, he was enjoying the sleep and rest too much to push any closer to wakefulness.

Suddenly, the floor fell away from his face and returned with a vengeance smacking him on the cheek. Just as suddenly his head struck the metal surface above his head. That hurt, he mused. Followed by a series of smaller bumps none of which packed enough force to repeat the bounce of his head on the floor or whatever was above his head.

McRory decided to give in to the urge to sleep.

⁑ ⁑ ⁑

Three Hours Earlier

THE ELEVATOR CAB door opened at the lobby level. McRory entered and repeatedly pressed the button for the penthouse level. The button stubbornly refused to remain lighted. The doors closed, and the cab descended into the floors below. He caught a ride on an elevator going down, not up. McRory accepted his fate, moved to the back of the cab, and leaned against the stacked stone wall.

The doors opened on the first level of the parking garage. A large man pushing a rolling cart stacked with luggage pressed into the cab seemingly oblivious to McRory’s presence. Before he knew it, the doors closed, but the cab remained in place, not moving. Hey, bud, the large mid-westerner called out. I didn’t see you standing there. Let me move the cart out of your way and give you some breathing space.

McRory made one of those faces broadcasting his displeasure but expressed his willingness to cooperate, albeit reluctantly.

The big guy, stylishly dressed, moved his body and the luggage cart like tic-tac-toe pieces sliding inside a square plastic frame until he was standing against McRory and the luggage cart was lodged against the elevator cab. McRory had even less room after these small maneuvers, if that was even possible.

McRory felt the small jab to his thigh. It was followed by a sharp tingling sensation spreading through his thigh. Trapped and surprised, he only managed, Hey! in response.

The big guy looked toward the door and away from the immobilized McRory. Take a deep breath, he advised, In ten seconds the pain will stop.

And, it did, but only because McRory lost consciousness. He should have collapsed onto the floor of the elevator. Trapped as he was between the stacked stone wall of the elevator cab and the big guy with the luggage cart, he remained upright.

⁑ ⁑ ⁑

FORTY MINUTES LATER, the mid-westerner made some minor adjustments to McRory’s body. He was careful to keep McRory’s head away from the sides of the trunk. He secured McRory to the floor using tie-down straps designed to keep cargo immobilized. He placed thick sponges, ordinarily used to detail the vehicle, at the points where the straps made contact with McRory’s body. He was the one who put McRory into harm’s way, but he wanted to maintain McRory’s comfort, or at least minimize McRory’s discomfort. Treat others as you would wish to be treated, his mother’s advice came roaring back from his childhood.

He stood to survey his handiwork. Pleased McRory was safely restrained, he smiled. He pressed the key fob and watched the BMW trunk lid slowly lower and lock into place.

CHAPTER ONE

"Low D, you need to come with me. The vice principal would like to have a word with you."

For most high school students, being summoned to the vice principal’s office by the wrestling coach was a life changing event. For Charles Lowandowski, this was yet another command summons to appear before the vice principal. He was no stranger to the front office.

His guidance counselor, Mr. Truesdale, did his own dirty work. Truesdale tracked down his victims. By contrast, the vice principal used the power of her office to task an outsized authority figure, like the wrestling coach, to pull him out of class for the dramatic effect. Gotta love high school. Really gotta love the vice principal, the old bitch.

On so many levels he hated being called Low D. The Lowandowski’s, originally his foster parents, successfully petitioned the court for adoption. His birth name was Charles Smith. He preferred Smith to Lowandowski any day. The school wrestling coach, Mr. Rybyski, loved the humor in Low D. To the coach, Low D, was an appropriate title for a slovenly slacker taking up the school’s space and oxygen.

Lowandowski was a solid D student who saw no value in expending his valuable effort to achieve.

Truth be told, the school gave up on Master Lowandowski years earlier. He was always at the center of any prohibited activity in the school. Parents of freshmen called to complain their sons were robbed of their lunch money. Find Mr. Lowandowski. The local police busted a high dollar football betting pool. Mr. Lowandowski was the financier. Obscene graffiti was spray painted on the school’s brick façade. Mr. Lowandowski was expressing his rage through his arguable artistic talent.

The vice principal ceased threatening to turn him over to the local police for prosecution. Been there. Done that. The Lowandowskis shielded their adopted son by hiring the most effective legal representation in town.

When that failed, judges threatened to place him in reform school or some alternative to incarceration. No effect. Again, he’d been there and done that. They sent him to the camps where troubled youth rebuilt park trails. He started a fire adding arson to his list of achievements. They sent him to the special school in the middle of nowhere. He impregnated one of the staff. They even sent him to a modern-day reform school. He emerged with a new set of anti-social behaviors—a much improved Social Deviant 2.0.

He hated school. He despised work even more. He was fired from every job his adopted parents pushed him into. He stole, he lied.

No person was less motivated to become a responsible young adult than Lowandowski.

God, how he hated that last name and his adopted parents.

They were pillars of the community. Wealthy, big home, expensive cars, and supportive alums of great universities. In short, they not only excelled, they hit every ball thrown their way out of the park—except where their adopted son was concerned.

They tried logic and incentives to reform his ways. They provided tutors, life coaches, special camps, and even older companions. Nothing worked. Indeed, everything they tried failed in a spectacular manner. Relatives and close friends tried and failed to convince John and Lia Lowandowski to give the kid back to the foster care system.

No one, yet, convinced the Lowandowskis that Charles was someone’s bad seed beyond any hope of redemption. For the Lowandowskis, hope did spring eternal. They just knew, somehow, some way, and some day they would find a way to save their only child. In their end, they did exactly that.

Lowandowski walked into the vice principal’s office, a closet really, with the wrestling coach so close he was making full body contact. The small balding crone behind the desk looked up at Lowandowski and smiled.

Low D, your parents were killed in a car accident today. Your ‘free ride’ is officially over. Now get out of my office.

She was smiling, almost ecstatic that she could be the bearer of the news.

⁑ ⁑ ⁑

JOHN AND LIA Lowandowski perished without a Last Will and Testament. They never took the time to write one. Nevertheless, Charles Lowandowski, whose eighteenth birthday occurred a month prior to their demise, was the sole beneficiary of their sizable estate.

The probate court was briefed on the troubled short life of Charles Lowandowski, and it did something most unusual. The court ruled the transfer of his adopted parents’ estate would be predicated on completing a one month period of financial counseling by a court appointed financial advisor.

Doing the time, one month in this instance, was not a challenge for Charles Lowandowski. They’d sent him to worse places than the nice offices of a financial advisor. He would suffer through this penalty while standing on his ear. The pay-off for doing so was huge.

⁑ ⁑ ⁑

KENNEDY FINANCIAL ADVISORS was in the nicest part of town. Their primary clientele amassed substantial estates that had to be managed through college educations, big weddings, the purchase of a first home for the newlyweds, the arrival of grandchildren, and mom and dad’s retirement. Following the norms of their profession, KFA also dedicated some of their valuable time to pro bono work.

Each financial advisor was assigned one limited function adult as a client. Whether through a birth defect, or the result of an accident, these young people often lived in group homes unable to self-manage their finances. Client meetings were held on weekend afternoons when there was little chance of meeting the firm’s primary clientele and most of the firm’s staff were out of the office.

Lowandowski scanned the waiting room. He’d been warned by his new financial advisor to expect the company in which he now found himself. Rather than finding the circumstances awkward or off-putting, Lowandowski found these young people friendly and not judgmental. Each was open and unguarded, willing, even eager, to share their personal story.

Lowandowski listened and learned.

He also mastered everything his financial advisor offered. The estate was large, but not so large he could live a profligate lifestyle. If he wanted the money to last, to keep and maintain the large house, and provide for a comfortable retirement, then he would need to work. He didn’t need a large salary, but he did need health benefits, maybe even more depending on what choices he made later in life.

CHAPTER TWO

Thomas Chesney worked in the mailroom at the Federal Trade Commission. Every work day, he rode the bus to the nearby Dunn Loring Metro Station where he rode the subway to the Federal Triangle Metro Station. One bus, one train, and a nine-minute walk to work. Tommy mastered the details of the daily commute to work and back home every day.

Charles Lowandowski liked Tommy. He treated him to lunch at the Subway sandwich store around the corner from the Kennedy firm’s offices. Tommy returned the favor by lending Lowandowski his employment file.

One forged letter to his Congressman claiming a traumatic brain injury in his parents’ car fatality, and Lowandowski had an interview with the FBI Field Office for Washington, DC. The interview was only a formality, since the appointment of limited function adults to unskilled positions was enshrined in federal regulation. Members of congress considered such appointments an obligation of constituent service.

The FBI was a serial failure in the development and deployment of electronic case management systems. Several attempts, and many tens of millions of dollars later, FBI agents largely entered data on-line to produce printed documents and records manually filed in FBI field offices. Depending on the privacy and security issues involved, printed documents were assigned to categories, each with its own set of methods for collection and destruction. It was Charles’ job to gather these documents for disposal throughout the day and transport them to the records destruction area for final processing.

He worked in the background with limited supervision. His sole responsibility: To transport documents in different colored plastic bags from point A to point B. He took his lunch in the employee cafeteria, like many FBI agents and staff. Unlike everyone else, he sat alone.

He had the perfect job for a slacker. Little was expected of him and no one exhorted him to do more, to do better. Lowandowski received an annual salary of $22,888 a year with full federal benefits including paid sick and annual leave. His financial advisor was pleased and notified the probate court accordingly. Thirty-odd days later, and with the help of his financial advisor, the proceeds of parents’ estate were apportioned according to an approved financial plan. He had a debit and credit cards in his own name. He received monthly statements from the bank and quarterly investment reports from Kennedy Financial Advisors.

Lowandowski, a supposed limited function adult was, for the first time, a productive member of society—and an eighteen-year-old millionaire.

His late adopted parents would be pleased, given the circumstances.

His Congressman fulfilled an important constituent service obligation.

His high school honored his written request to withdraw. Normally, the school would reject a request from a senior so close to graduation. A student in the drop out category on its performance reports was normally a black eye for any school. Even more so for a school with a high graduation rate and many of its graduates pursuing collegiate educations.

The principal, vice principal, wrestling coach, guidance counselor, and faculty not so quietly celebrated the departure of Charles Lowandowski. There were high fives all around.

It was a win-win for all who knew him.

CHAPTER THREE

Parking in San Francisco was better than, say, parking in New York City, but not great. The luxury condo building on Market Street operated a parking garage located in the underground levels of the building. A parking spot set one back $750 a month. There were cheaper alternatives nearby, but none as convenient for residents and visitors to the building.

Convenience was paramount for Lonnie Miller. His business was built on convenience.

Miller was a contractor who drove for the MetroWings car service. Parking in the garage made him the closest driver for any resident, guest, or visitor hailing a ride from the building. Parking in the garage meant he was already there. No competitor could ever be closer or respond as rapidly. Call for a MetroWings car using the smartphone app, and the extensive algorithms developed and maintained by an army of data analysts and software engineers, automatically kicked the fare to Miller. That alone made the $750 monthly fee a bargain.

Residents in the luxury building were among the best fares in the city. The most frequent and remunerative fares involved transport to the departure area of the airport or a pick-up in the baggage claim area. However, the private air terminal was the second most popular destination with the international terminal a close third.

Unfortunately, dead heading was an occupational hazard for a limo driver. Airport fares often required Miller to make one leg of his round-trip empty. Fares in both directions were a welcomed oddity. The generous gratuities Miller always received from his well-heeled clientele more than covered the lost income.

Miller cultivated a following among the building’s residents. His monthly parking permit provided access to the building’s elevators. Booking a trip to the airport meant Miller called for a resident’s luggage at their apartment, and he carried everything a resident packed directly to his car. No need to call downstairs to the porter who handed the luggage to the doorman. Both Miller and the resident bypassed the busy building lobby and the frequent wet weather for which San Francisco was known. Luggage handling and convenience was one call and one gratuity for residents and their guests.

His BMW 750i was always clean and dry, warm in the winter, and cool in the summer. It was a small thing, but his clients welcomed the opportunity to carry, rather than wear, the coats and umbrellas otherwise necessary.

Plus, none of Miller’s clients had to wait. Call and he was already there. For an owner or renter of a luxury loft in downtown San Francisco, Miller was an ultra-convenient service the building offered, like 24-hour room service, the masseuse, and other high-end, high-value personal amenities.

⁑ ⁑ ⁑

MILLER GRADUATED FROM Stanford cum laude. He took his post-graduate degree from the London School of Economics and Political Science. Like many well-educated university graduates who made their way to Silicon Valley, he had a can’t miss idea for an internet start-up. Attracting funding wasn’t a problem for someone with his impressive credentials. Meeting the expectations of his funding partners, however, was.

His start-up blew through its initial funding without hitting any of the benchmarks of success. Within a year he was yet another failed entrepreneur in Silicon Valley—one of too many. The gig with MetroWings was something he did to kill time and earn some pocket money while he polished his next great idea. As an added inducement, he already owned the luxury BMW.

Gradually, his temporary gig turned into something so much more.

Miller could schmooze. The time spent at Palo Alto and London smoothed the otherwise rough edges for the Nebraska farm boy and transformed him into a well-heeled, well-spoken cosmopolitan. He was more than capable of holding his own on any number of topics and issues. More importantly, Miller’s clients—his fares—felt at ease with him. They could talk about anything with Miller.

Much to their own disservice, they often did.

Not only did his clients share the details of their travels, but they were way too willing to discuss the art, jewelry, antiques, furs, and other personal effects that came into their possession. Over time, he became well versed in art, estate jewelry, and the other trappings of great wealth. On those rare occasions when Miller’s knowledge did not cover a particular item, he knew how to fill the gap in his otherwise extensive education.

Miller knew where their travels would take them, when they would return, and what valuables were unprotected during their absence. He was a fixture in the building. He could come and go without challenge. He considered the large luxury building his exclusive domain. And, everyone in the building both liked and trusted him.

The building was about to become his exclusive game preserve, and only he would sell hunting licenses.

⁑ ⁑ ⁑

ORIGINALLY A MILITARY project intended to protect U.S. intelligence communications over the Internet, TOR, was an anonymity network.

TOR software made its way into countries where Internet censorship existed, or where governments closely surveilled citizen use of the Internet. Internet users needing a cloak of anonymity downloaded the TOR software and joined a network of other TOR users throughout the world. Anyone wants to browse web sites without compromising one’s identity, used the TOR web browser. For those seeking to purchase goods or services of a questionable nature, the TOR network, or what is euphemistically described as the dark web was the marketplace.

TOR rapidly became a safe transport for criminals and transnational crime syndicates. Anonymity networks, like TOR, made it impossible for law enforcement organizations to track illegal Internet communications between sending and receiving parties.

The most infamous use of the dark web involved a web site known as the Silk Road. Everything was for sale on the Silk Road. The only issue was price. Buyers and sellers of illegal goods and services used the TOR software to guarantee their anonymity.

The TOR software bundle and the deep web were hardly a secret. Miller was an early user of the TOR software when he was an undergraduate at Stanford.

Miller used TOR to troll a classmate in whom he held a prurient interest. Miller was a bi-sexual, and while he was fond of both men and women, he had a talent for developing an interest in people who were unlikely to reciprocate. TOR protected Miller’s identity as he lurked around the blogs and social media web sites of his targets. The anonymity TOR provided made him impossible to track. Miller, the stalker, hunted his prey while hidden behind a wall of software protection.

He even used a pharmaceuticals web site on the dark web to acquire Adderall to cram for exams, score high-quality recreational weed, or coke when he wanted to be crazy. All of these drugs were openly available on most college