The Intern's Handbook: A Thriller (23 page)

“Okay . . . When do I get the good news?”

“The good news is we aren’t going to try to take him when he’s fully protected. We’re going to take him the one place where he
can’t
be fully protected. I’ll give you three guesses.”

“You’re not serious.”

“About the three guesses?”

“No, about the location for the hit. I already guessed it. And I just realized why you’re so happy today.”

“I’m happy because we finally have a solid game plan for you to complete this assignment. Something that should also make you happy.”

“Let’s not get carried away. You want me to take him on the plane, don’t you?”

“It’s perfect. Their corporate jet goes out of a municipal airport on Long Island. Security at the airport is a joke. And it’s a Gulfstream 650. Plenty of room for you to hide until they’re airborne.”

“He can only take a fraction of his detail. The best ones, but still.”

“Exactly. This is our only window.”

“Timeline?”

“Still working it. They change the date often, to avoid patterning. But it will definitely be within the next seven days.”

“That’s a relief, Bob. You got a sim?”

“The team already has a simulation model ready for you to cycle through.”

“Good.”

“John, I don’t want you to think about anything other than execution.”

“Of course. Why do you say that?”

“It’s your final assignment. That’s all. What you do after it’s completed is your business. I won’t stand in the way.”

“Thanks. Better get to work.”

As I walk out of Bob’s office, I am relieved and somewhat excited.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel of horrors and I feel like my old self again. I can face the day at the office with no concern of running into Alice and feeling awkward. I am focused. In seven days, I will be free and clear to do whatever the fuck I want. It will all be over. HR, Inc. and Bob will be in my rearview mirror. And Locke will be a dead man.

When I arrive at the office, I simply go about my day doing the work that is assigned to me. I never see Alice. I know she’s avoiding me, which is a relief. Bendini visits me a couple of times at my desk and I hand him hundreds of thousands in billable files to keep him from attempting to engage me in small talk. But he still manages to invite me to his niece’s wedding in eight weeks. I enthusiastically agree to go to the wedding to get him out of my fucking office. He gives me the Geppetto look and pat on the back, his signature move in our relationship. I smile back, the lying Pinocchio waiting for his nose to grow and drive itself through the old man’s heart.

After work I drive to an airplane hangar in Jersey. Bob’s team has rented a G650 jet and we go to work on the simulation. He stops by the hangar later and we discuss the kill itself. Since the hit is far more sophisticated than anything a mobster is capable of, we decide to create a revenge profile around a CIA scrub job. Evidently, Locke sold out one of their operatives using witness protection as a cover to infiltrate some domestic terror cell being formed by Al Qaeda snitches that flipped their sheik—or something to that effect. Operative’s name hits the street, and he and five other agents buy it in a car bomb. The CIA doesn’t take kindly to that sort of shit. So I prep for a ghost op—which is fitting, since calling this a suicide mission is an understatement.

T
wo days into the planning and Bob is getting restless. His operatives are having a hard time finding out the exact itinerary of the board meeting—something that is kept under very heavy security for obvious reasons. So, once again, gathering intel becomes my job. I explore every possible avenue at the office to find this information but come up empty. Corporate travel doesn’t even know the itinerary. A third-party company plans the entire meeting, and they’re in D.C. As usual, Bob shows no reluctance to pass the buck.

“What about the girl you’ve been working?”

“I cut her loose. It was ugly, but clean.”

“She may be the only chance we’ve got. Can you fix it?”

“How do you propose I do that?”

“I see your point. Not your area of expertise, John.”

“Exactly. And we’re way past flowers and candy here. It would take a fucking miracle for her to even look at me again.”

“I’ll put a team on it.”

I’m a big believer in Murphy’s Law, so I wasn’t surprised by this turn of events. And Bob’s right about Alice. Her access is much better than mine. Bendini has a weakness for beautiful women, and he likes to have her around as much as possible. She’ll have to ensure he has the briefs he needs prior to departure so he can review them when he travels. Simple deduction says that her deadline, the night before departure, equals my insertion time. But since Alice and I are
not speaking, a casual conversation wherein I could easily extract this information is all but impossible. She’s giving me a world-class cold shoulder, and when I see her in the office, she avoids me like a plague-infected rodent.

There are no work-arounds here. After our little mixed martial arts encounter in her apartment, the bureau has undoubtedly beefed up her security. The data signal I had coming out of her laptop is dead. Her apartment is one big firewall now, with no data coming in or out, at least none that I can see. The unpleasant truth is that I have to get her to
speak
to me. This is going to require some serious finesse. Somehow I need to make Alice remember how much she loves me in an authentic way that feels motivated by her, not me. We have to remember that Alice likes to be in control. So if she feels in any way manipulated by me, she’ll bolt and my last chance will be FUBAR. So, with HR’s “social trainers,” people Bob hires to help robots like us seem human, I come up with a master plan.

Phase One: a foot in the door.

For this, the team literally gives me a mannequin’s foot with the word
JOHN
written directly on the heel.
I’m a heel
. Get it? I place it just inside her office door when she goes to the restroom. Then I wait in the break room nearby. When she returns, she stops short at the sight of the foot. She stares at it for a few seconds, then picks it up and reads the heel. There is a tiny camera embedded in the foot, so the team and I can judge her reaction, and as a bonus, I have her office wired up with a camera (her own computer camera) and a couple of mics (in her computer speakers) for the next phase. I go back to my office and wait. The team calls. Phase One is a success. We got a very slight grin out of her. They send me a hard copy. I can’t believe it. I know that smile. It’s the same smile she puts on when she wants to have sex or order Thai food.

Phase Two: “La Cucaracha”

Alice is obsessed with this Mexican dive restaurant a few blocks away,
which we have completely wired up with cameras and mics. While Alice eats lunch,
our
mariachi band sashays up to her table and begins to play “La Cucaracha.” She is about to tell them to get lost when she hears the new lyrics we wrote for them. The song is now all about how
John is La Cucaracha
. She can’t help but laugh out loud. She looks around the restaurant to see if I am there, spying on her. She looks slightly disappointed when I don’t pop out. This conveys that I am being respectful of her space and that I am not too eager. It works. That afternoon, I get a text from Alice with a little snippet of the mariachi performance. The only thing she writes is
“hijo de puta”
which means “son of a bitch.” By insulting me, especially in Spanish, she is preparing to forgive me. This is her way of opening the dialogue by continuing to express her anger but doing it in a cutesy way. She knows me well enough to know that I would think being called a son of a bitch in Spanish is funny. I’m close.

Phase Three: Diamonds are forever.

I know what you’re thinking. Is this motherfucker actually going to ask her to marry him? The answer is yes. When a wolf goes in for the kill, he goes straight for the throat. Predators need guarantees. I need a guarantee. And you better believe that Alice needs a fucking guarantee, because she’s a predator too. Nothing but the taste of my blood in her mouth is going to satisfy her.

For the final phase, the team arms me with the most deadly weapon I have ever held in my hand: a two-carat Harry Winston diamond engagement ring. Two carats because a junior associate from Shitsville would have to sell both kidneys to get any more rock for his money. Harry Winston because Alice is obsessed with watching
any
red carpet coverage of any awards show, and the jewels are always from Harry Winston.

On to the presentation. Alice is a big fan of Batman. So the team places a powerful spotlight with a Batman symbol gobo on the terrace of the Getty suite at The Pierre Hotel.
The Bat Signal
. Alice
works late, like usual, and goes out onto Bendini’s terrace to sneak a cigarette, like usual. When she’s out there, we fire up the gobo. The Bat Signal appears in full glory on the surface of the low clouds and it’s clear which roof the gobo is occupying. Then I send her a text, my first direct communication in this little operation. All it says is “to the Batcave”—Adam West’s go-to line whenever he and Robin, his bitch in tights, would see that Commissioner Gordon (his bitch in pinstripes) was calling for help. A few minutes later, I receive a text from her: “Pow!”

United States Department of Justice

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Washington, D.C. 20535

Location: Surrey Hotel/Rooftop, Manhattan

Subjects: John Lago and Alice (censored).