Project Northwest (2 page)

Mr. Maybe cleared his throat and cupped his
hands in his lap, paused as if he was waiting for the applause to
wind down. He was clearly used to having rooms wait for him.

“Good morning, Mr. Spain. I do apologize for
my being tardy. It is indeed customary to shake hands and exchange
pleasantries, but I neither have the time for such protocol nor the
desire to free your hands—so I hope you do not think me rude.”

Mr. Maybe motioned to Mr. Wright, who
immediately handed him an iPhone, already opened to the Project
Northwest application.

“I work for
persons
,” Mr. Maybe said,
making exaggerated quote motions with his fingers when he spoke the
word persons, “who have a great deal to gain from certain
information—inside information, Mr. Spain. Information a person in
your position can obtain and communicate.”

He placed his forefinger on his chin in deep
contemplation. “In fact, my clients are so well known that the bank
would see them coming and circle the wagons in defense. The client
has, as we say, an indistinguishable notoriety—thus we need someone
who can assist us, someone unknown. Someone without the
complications that notoriety brings. With that premise, I’ll ask
some questions and your answers, if satisfactory, will allow you to
live. If they are not, then you will most certainly be killed.
Please excuse my frankness in such a personal matter as someone’s
life—your life—but it is what it is.”

James began to move violently in an attempt
to loosen his hands, but it was useless. The more he struggled, the
more the rope tightened around his throat and burned and marred the
skin of his wrists. James fought so hard, he actually winded
himself. His exhaustion only angered him more—all to the amusement
of Mr. Maybe.

Mr. Maybe motioned for Mr. Wright with a
simple head nod. Mr. Wright instantaneously stated, “Yes, Mr.
Spain, fight for life. That’s what we like to see. Embrace it.” Mr.
Wright walked over to James and patted him on the head. “Good boy,
now listen up. We have a saying where I’m from, one you should
heed. ‘Talk less and say more’.”

“I haven’t said anything, you asshole,” James
contested.

“You will, Mr. Spain, and when you do, talk
less and say more.”

“Are you or are you not familiar with USAPA
regulations?” Mr. Maybe questioned.

James didn’t answer fast enough and was
slapped across the right ear by Wright. He screamed out in protest
and Wright leaned in. “Ah good, your ear feels the pain. Then I
suspect it works, as well. You may want to open them both up and
listen.”

Mr. Wright leaned in even closer and
whispered, “Now I’m being nice, so answer the questions or Mr.
Wrong will get the answers his way. How you feel about what is
happening to you is of little concern to me. Am I understood?”

James was hoping he would get a little
closer, he just needed a little blood, a mouthful of skin or of
hair, but what he whispered next stopped James’s DNA collection
scheme in its tracks.

“But let me be clear—that tight little tail
you call Bridget will suffer a life threatening accident if you
don’t answer truthfully and succinctly.”

“Bridget?” James asked in disbelief.

“Yes, Bridget Davies,” Wright said quoting
from his mental notes. “She’s originally of Redmond, now residing
in an apartment on Third Avenue. Nice apartment, far beyond her
means as a hot little red–headed barmaid at the Two Door &
Musicquarium. Her taxable income last year was a little over ten
thousand, but she seems to do okay.” Mr. Wright stood and pushed
James’s head into the bed in disgust.

Wright moved to the bathroom nook, looked
into the bathroom mirror, and primped himself as he resumed. “If I
had to guess—and allow me the pleasure—she supplements her income
with unreported tips and a little rally round the flag pole of one
James Spain. Ah yes, a twenty–two year old dynamite. Dynamite is a
funny thing, Mr. Spain. It’s just a safe form of nitroglycerin.
Know what else nitro is used for? It kick-starts the heart, and I
bet that twenty–two year old dynamite gets your heart pumping.
She’s much closer to twenty–two than twenty–three, had a birthday
two Saturdays ago. The small diamond earrings, by the way, were
exquisite and classy. Don’t want to set the bar too high,
right?”

Wright was back at the bed with a handful of
James’s hair, pulling his head back so James’s eyes were inspecting
the ceiling. “Am I understood?”

“Yes,” said James empathically. “Yes, I know
of the USA Patriot Act.”

“Perfect,” said Mr. Maybe, obviously eager to
continue the line of questioning, “and I’ll assume you know of the
requirements of CIP. Take note, Mr. Spain, the questions will
continue and the answers are expected immediately. Simply say yes
or no.”

“Yes,” said James.

“You are a Commissioned Thrift
Regulator?”

“Yes.”

“You are a professional in GAAP
accounting?”

“Ah, yes” Wright said, interrupting the
questioning for his own pleasure, “Bridget with the green eyes and
legs that stretch to Fourth Avenue. Isn’t she quite ravishing?”

“Yes,” answered James to both questions.

“You are a CPA?”

“Yes.”

“You are or have been a Compliance Specialist
with the OTS?”

“Yes.”

“And that ass, perfectly round, worked out
and toned—

just an ounce of fat for that jiggle? Uhmmm.
Who doesn’t like a little jiggle in their treat? Now, Mr. Wrong is
more of a breast man, but you and I have the same affection to
notable attachments, if you get my meaning,” implied Mr. Wright.
After this, he seemed pleased with himself, walked across the room
and sat on the edge of the desk.

Mr. Maybe watched Mr. Wright with the
adolescent delight of a high-school boy in sex education class. He
cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, returned to his
pious-like sitting position, and continued, “You are an examiner
specialist with the OTS?”

“Yes.”

“As an examiner, you’ve been evaluating
Washington Common Bank for the last ten months?”

“Yes.”

“And finally, Mr. Spain, in your position as
examiner, you have timely access to the banks in-flow and out-flow
data?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect, Mr. Spain, I think you’re our man.
An associate of ours will be in touch in the next couple of days.
You’ll recognize this associate because she will simply state the
code words, ‘Project Northwest.’ This associate will give you a
series of detailed tasks you are to perform for us each day.”

James looked up from having buried his face
into the bed. “I’m not going to help you rob a bank, are you nuts?
Everyone knows me.”

“My dear sir, you’ve already helped more than
you can know. You certainly don’t think we would send you in with a
mask from the local costume shop, a stick-up note, and a gun, do
you? ‘Dear Teller, please give me the entire bank.’ This isn’t a
strong-armed robbery. We’re talking billions of dollars, not
thousands.” Mr. Maybe paused in mid-sentence, as if speaking of
billions made him lose his train of thought.

“It’s all just data, Mr. Spain, dollar signs
and numerals, but my client wants it. We don’t act like nor do we
portend to be common thugs. You’re not going to help us rob a bank
per se. You’re simply going to help us get what my client wants for
free.”

James, thoroughly confused, felt his only
recourse was to bury his face into the bloody comforter. He just
needed a moment to process everything.

They had him, they knew everything about his
job at the bank, and they were certainly knowledgeable of Bridget.
He could feel the brittle scab over his brow grinding its way into
his wound as he shook his head. The back and forth motion across
the comforter aggravated the wound and it began to bleed.

As he let the last forty-five minutes wash
over him, he realized a number of things.

The confusion was purposeful, the odd names
of the assailants, the ‘help us rob a bank’ and in the same breath,
‘get a bank for free’ speech. The good cop, bad cop routine,
inundated with piercing questions, absolute knowledge of his daily
life, and that of his girl’s daily life. It all hit him as
surreal.

He knew what was coming next. The answer was
simple if you ask the right question: “What could he give them that
they couldn’t get themselves?” They were obviously well-connected
professionals. The answer: “Data!” More precisely—“inflow and
outflow data,” as Mr. Maybe had claimed.

James’s brain worked overtime and he quickly
saw an opportunity to get out. He didn’t know if it would work, but
it was worth a shot.

His head shot up as he spurted out, “But I’m
all beat up. I have at least two cuts above my brow. I’m sure I
have a black eye and my lip is busted. When I return to work, I
will be under instant suspicion and watched closely. You don’t know
the management. My appearance will not be tolerated. I’ll probably
be asked to leave and investigated, at a minimum, by my mere
appearance alone. I will be an eyesore, literally. You stupid
fucks, you’ve damaged the package—isn’t that what they say in the
circles you work in?”

As if on cue, Mr. Wright produced a Seattle
Times, turned to a page with the headline, and began to read it as
he walked across the room. He placed it on the bed, so James had a
clear view:
‘OTS Agent in Car Accident.’

James took notice of the headline, read the
quick article, and sighed as despair took his breath away.
According to the article, he had been in a car accident. Police
stated it’s a no-fault accident, a tire blew or some other
mechanical failure. He simply lost control of the '69 Boss 429
Mustang and found one of the only wooden telephone poles in
downtown Seattle.

He noted the date, April 19th, 2008. He’d
been captive for less than a day. He damned the precision of Mr.
Wright. Where was the ineptness of the government when you needed
it? Today was Saturday and he could return to work on Monday
amongst sincere remarks of: “You look horrible, but thank God
you’re okay.” In thought, he doubted God had anything to do with
this. Everyone would see it as it appeared: James had been in an
accident and was lucky to be alive.

Moments later, without cue, Mr. Wright picked
up another paper. “This one wasn’t published,” he said as he placed
another article in front of James, this time turning to a page that
read, O
TS Agent and Girlfriend Die in Car Accident.
James at
once got the gist.

“Is Bridget okay?” James asked, fearful of
the answer.

“Yes, completely unharmed. She is worried,
though, but she doesn’t have a clue about any of this.”

“Did you wreck my Mustang?” James
demanded.

“Well, of course, Mr. Spain. It’s vital to
our plan that you appear to have been in an accident. Wouldn’t be
very convincing if you drove up to the bank with an intact,
undamaged Mustang, now would it?” Mr. Wright chided.

“It was a classic, only 858 of ‘em made,”
James said as he buried his head back into the comforter, hiding
his moist eyes.

Mr. Maybe cleared his throat. “Mr. Spain, I
will bid you
adieu
, and remind you that ‘Project Northwest’
are the code words. When you hear the code words, you should do
exactly as the person tells you.”

Mr. Maybe stood. “You’ll recognize her, as
she’s an albino, though she does dye her hair, so I’m not certain
that factual bit of data helps. Her eyes, though, are unmistakable,
almost a translucent blue-gray color, just mesmerizing, and the
creamy, snowy-white complexion of her skin, she reminds me of an
adult version of Snow White. Just do as she says and in five or six
weeks, this will all be behind us. Good day, Mr. Spain.”

Mr. Maybe handed the iPhone back to Mr.
Wright, who carefully slid it into his coat jacket. He dusted off
invisible dust from his sleeve and, as if he were some silent
obscurity, left the room without saying a word. James was astounded
by the business-like, glib fashion they acted toward this whole
situation.
Am I really going to help them steal from a bank?
What does that even mean?

Wright stood and began collecting the
newspapers. “One final order of business, Mr. Spain. We have you
bugged. Your condominium, Ms. Davies’ car, her apartment, your
email, home, and cell phones are all bugged. If by chance you find
one of our devices, I’d strongly suggest you leave it. In fact, if
you tamper with any of my equipment I will take it as a personal
insult. Also, know we check your garbage, both office and home, so
let’s not write any little notes, shall we? Finally, you should
presume we have access to everything you own and we will be
checking for notes, calls, emails, et cetera, et cetera, in your
home and work. It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway:
don’t fuck with me.”

Mr. Wrong stood, pulled a pocket-knife from
his left pant pocket. James, seeing this, started to squirm, but
couldn’t move.

For the first time, Mr. Wrong spoke. His
voice was deep, resonating, and commanding, but it had a soothing
tone to it. Simply put, one didn’t know if Mr. Wrong was going to
make sweet, sweet love to you or fuck you up. “I don’t want to cut
you, but if you squirm—accidents have been known to happen.” He
placed his hand on James’s left shoulder and simply claimed, “This
never happened,” as he cut the rope that hogtied James’s neck.

James immediately straightened his sore
spine, relieved for the freedom of movement. He sat on the heels of
his feet as he watched Mr. Wright and Mr. Wrong collect and place
the coffee cups, along with the newspapers, into a garbage bag and
exit the room with the mannerism of visiting a long lost friend.
They even wished him a good day and good luck.

“Remember, this never happened,” said Mr.
Wrong as he closed the door.

* * * *