I rested my head on my hands and pretended to listen.
In reality, I was thinking that I was a very wrong kind of transmigrator. Always working, always training, always learning. No world domination, no superpowers, not even a harem. But problems? Problems were always in stock.
I straightened, rubbed my face with both hands, and looked at my visitors.
Hood sat with his back perfectly straight. In front of him lay a stack of documents, every page marked with a tab. Chen sat across from him, her tables spread out like a fan, patiently waiting for me to stop pretending to be an attentive listener.
"David," she began without preamble, "we have a problem."
"I know."
"No. You don't."
She laid a table in front of me. Columns of numbers, written in her small, calligraphic hand.
"The company's net income for the last quarter was twenty-one thousand three hundred and twelve dollars." She tapped the final line with her finger. "A little over a year ago, we had one hundred and eighty thousand net for the same period. Since then, we have done colossal work: launched new products, expanded distribution channels, acquired a customer base across America and beyond. Revenue should have grown to at least six hundred thousand a month. A month, not a quarter. Even accounting for the expanded staff — the incredibly expanded staff. Which, in principle, I can understand. The company has put down roots, our staff works effectively, and the entire organization runs very smoothly. I may not understand your insane salaries, but we should have reached three hundred and fifty thousand in profit. Instead, we have twenty-one thousand. For the quarter, David."
She fell silent and removed her glasses to wipe the lenses.
"This is a catastrophe," she finished, putting them back on.
"Hard times require hard decisions," I tried to smooth the edges. "A lot of money is going into new directions, but they're necessary right now. Besides, all employees are paid, we have no debts, everything is clean. Yes, we're investing in new divisions. But the security company will soon pay for itself. And after the incident with the secretary, I think many people had their eyes opened to the kind of world they live in and why security is useful."
"By the time it starts paying for itself, there may be nothing left of the company. Of course, I understand the prospects of that direction, and I am very glad I'm protected by real professionals, but so much money is going into it that it feels like you're building an army. Forgive me, I don't like using formulations of this sort, but we are in deep shit."
My eyebrow actually rose. Unexpected, coming from a woman who had never allowed herself anything rougher than the word "unsatisfactory" in all the time she had worked for me.
"We were in a similar position at the start," she continued, and her voice hardened. "Back then, it was understandable. We were just beginning. But now, when the money should be increasing, we are sinking deeper instead. Let me go through the expense categories so you can hear it out loud."
She straightened and began to list them.
"Training complex construction expenses: two hundred and thirty thousand for the quarter. Two hundred and thirty. For the quarter. Are you trying to build a new Pentagon out there? Considering Grant is handling that directly, and her real estate and construction connections soften many of the edges, the figure is astonishing. Salaries and relocation costs for instructors, hiring psychologists, cooks — that is a separate story, and I will simply say nothing about it. Security division payroll: one hundred thousand. For the quarter. There are one hundred and thirty people on the rolls. Those are insane salaries, Mr. Miller. And why do we need such a large security staff? Here is my favorite one: equipment and weapons, eighty thousand. When I opened the estimate and saw the list of items, my first thought was that we were going to Vietnam. Then I remembered it had supposedly ended."
She ran her finger down the next column and smiled.
That smile sent a chill down my spine.
"And now we arrive at the point that is killing me. The laboratory. We make sticky notes, David. But we are spending money on building a laboratory that could have opened a factory. Total expenses for the entire period are seven hundred thousand dollars. This is a hole that has already begun devouring the firm's reserves, and if nothing changes, it will devour everything."
Just when I was certain Chen would throw the report either out the window or at me, Hood entered the conversation.
"Miss Chen expressed herself correctly. We are in deep shit."
He said it with the same expression he might have used to report the weather.
"It is also worth taking into account that the intelligence and analytical departments, or so-called corporate security, if you will, consumed one hundred thousand for the quarter. Charity takes another thirty thousand. Frankly, I am surprised we have not gone negative already."
He opened his folder, found the page he needed, and placed it in front of me.
"I must admit, you have gathered specialists who handle your money skillfully and steal practically nothing. Practically, I emphasize, because I have not yet finished the audit. But even honest management cannot save one from arithmetic. When expenses exceed income at this ratio, the question is not development, but survival. Twenty thousand in profit for the quarter is immensely encouraging. With expenses like these, it is a miracle."
"What frightens me most," Chen picked up, "is that you will start some new venture again. That you will come in tomorrow and say we need to invest another two hundred thousand into another project that will pay off in five years. And then we will finally go under."
Hood nodded and continued.
"I would also like to draw your attention separately to the payroll. Mr. Miller, the average salary in your security division is twelve thousand dollars a year. That is forty percent above the market rate for similar work. Specialists, instructors, and heads of divisions receive from twenty-five to eighty thousand. Eighty thousand a year, Mr. Miller, for work that any other company would value at half that. The same applies to other company specialists."
"And where are you going with this?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"We can reduce expenses by at least thirty percent if we revise the salary scale," Hood said. "Bring rates to market level, introduce performance bonuses instead of guaranteed payments. That would save approximately one hundred thousand per quarter. It will not solve the problem entirely, but it will significantly slow the bleeding."
"No."
Hood's face did not change, but something in his silence became slightly more expressive.
"No?" Chen asked.
"No. We do not touch salaries. Not for the rank and file, not for instructors, not for anyone."
Chen leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on the table.
"David, I understand your position. High salaries retain the best people, build loyalty, reduce turnover. In normal circumstances, that is reasonable. But our circumstances are far from normal. Mathematics knows no mercy. Either we cut expenses or increase income. I do not see a third option, and as far as I know, one does not exist."
"Income."
"Excuse me?"
"We increase income. We are not cutting anything, because that is a downward path. You start cutting salaries, you lose people. You lose people, you lose quality. You lose quality, you lose clients. That is a spiral you don't climb out of."
Hood tilted his head slightly.
"That sounds logical in theory. In practice, I would like to hear specifics. By what means do you plan to increase income, and within what timeframe?"
"Everything is ready to launch a new product. Production lines are set, patents are filed, distribution channels are prepared. Thanks to everything we've done up to this point, we can safely bring it into the world and take maximum profit."
Chen shook her head, and it was clear she was restraining herself from saying something especially sharp.
"Mr. Miller, I will not intrude with advice in an area I do not understand. My job is to count. But I have been counting for a year and a half, and in that time I still have not been able to understand one thing. Why spend so much on security and the laboratory at the same time? With that money, we could have long since built our own production chain from scratch, reached an entirely different level of profit, and we would not be sitting here now, the three of us, discussing how to survive."
I didn't answer, because, damn it, I could have lost my temper and told them all to go to hell.
As if I didn't want to open a full production chain myself.
But what was I supposed to cut?
The laboratory? Phineas would truly reveal his talent only once he had proper equipment and space to work, and that trump card would repay every dollar invested many times over.
They were laying the foundation of a scientific department that would one day gather the best minds in the country. Of course it cost insane money. Especially since I had driven by the construction site a couple of times: the land we had bought was substantial, again with future price growth in mind, and the laboratory itself was being built with such a solid reserve for the future that every cent there went to work.
Cut security?
After that, they would cut my head off, and not figuratively. The situation had escalated so sharply that our boys had the office surrounded and guarded around the clock. And I was calm precisely because I paid them properly and did not economize on my own life.
Salaries?
Not funny. Professionals work for me, and they should be paid accordingly. That is a personal obsession of mine. Besides, the people themselves invest effort and increase my profit. I simply cannot spit on their labor.
"In one week, gather everyone," I said. "I will finally close all questions. And we will launch the direction that will plug all the holes. What reserves do we have left?"
"The money in reserve totals five hundred and sixty thousand," Chen answered. "At the current rate of spending, we will begin going into the red in two months. Then the reserve will begin melting. And that is an optimistic estimate, because I am assuming current income remains at the same level. It could very well drop if the market moves against us."
"Two months, Mr. Miller," Hood added. "Not three, not four. Two. After that, we will have to either reduce staff, sell assets, or seek external financing on unfavorable terms."
"That will not happen. We are finally ready to take on the new business."
***
The telephone woke me.
The device stood on the nightstand by the bed and was now shrieking as if someone's life depended on it.
I rolled onto my side and somehow pried my eyes open. The clock on the wall showed a quarter to seven. Today, I had left work earlier than usual to finally get some sleep. My body was running on coffee, bourbon, and pure stubbornness, and even stubbornness had begun to fail. I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow and dropped into a black, blessed emptiness without dreams.
"Miller speaking."
"Boss."
Jacob's voice.
And something in that voice made me sit up in bed with a jerk. In the two years we had worked together, I had learned to read Jacob by intonation better than by facial expression. And now I understood that something extraordinary had happened.
"What happened?"
"Boss, you need to be here. As soon as possible."
In my memory, Jacob had never once called me at home. Any issue was handled on site, during working hours, according to protocol. He would sooner cut off his second hand than bother me over nothing.
I was already pulling on my trousers, pinning the receiver to my ear with my shoulder.
"I'm on my way."
The Mercedes tore through nighttime Manhattan. I ran red lights without stopping, turned onto our street, and saw red-blue flashes reflected in the rain-wet asphalt. Two police cars blocked the road. An ambulance stood with its rear doors open. A crowd of gawkers gathered behind yellow police tape. And our office building was flooded with searchlight glare.
Cats scratched at my soul.
I parked behind the police cordon and got out. The night air smelled of wet asphalt and gunpowder.
A policeman at the tape raised his hand.
"Sir, you can't go in there—"
"This is my office."
Jacob was already coming toward me.
"Boss, this way. Let him through, officer. He's the owner."
The policeman reluctantly stepped back. I ducked under the tape, and Jacob walked beside me, sketching the picture in short, precise phrases. His voice was even and professional, but the fingers gripping his belt had gone white.
"It happened at eighteen-twenty. Most office employees had already left, but quite a few were still here: accounting, a couple of engineers, and security. Twelve of our men on post, standard layout."
By the service entrance, about fifteen meters from the wall, stood a van. Or rather, what remained of it. A white Ford Econoline, the kind thousands of in New York. Perfect camouflage.
Only this van was not going anywhere anymore.
The left side was torn open, metal peeled outward like petals, burned black. The windshield had collapsed inward and onto the asphalt.
And around the van lay what had once been people. I counted five or six; hard to say when bodies are shredded by fragments and burned. One lay face down three meters from the van, a rifle beside him. Another was at the rear doors, twisted up. The rest were closer to the van, in poses living people do not take.
There were no bodies in our gear among them.
I suppressed a wave of nausea, exhaled, and turned to Jacob.
"Report."
"The van pulled up at eighteen-seventeen. Parked across from the service entrance. Kenny Farrell at the observation post on the third floor spotted it immediately. White van, no markings, plates covered with mud. Kenny reported it over the radio to the other posts."
He pointed to the building diagram pinned to the wall.
"Billy was on sniper position today. Danny was scheduled, but Billy asked to swap. Said he'd been sitting too long and wanted to stretch. Position on the roof of the neighboring building. Direct view of the service entrance."
"Billy," I repeated.
"Billy," Jacob confirmed.
And in his voice flickered something one might take for gratitude to fate.
"Continue."
"At eighteen-twenty, the rear doors of the van opened and five men got out. Four with automatic weapons, M16s. The fifth carried a bag. They moved fast, organized, going toward the service entrance in a wedge. Kenny radioed: armed, five men, moving to the entrance. Billy already had them in his sights."
Jacob fell silent for a moment.
"The fifth took a grenade out of the bag. Not tear gas. Not a flashbang. A live fragmentation grenade. One of the riflemen fired a burst into a first-floor window, blew out the glass, and the fifth drew back to throw the grenade inside. There were eight people in that room."
Silence.
"And then Billy fired. One bullet. Straight to the head. The fifth dropped. The grenade, already without the pin, slipped from his hand and rolled along the asphalt. Toward the van. It exploded right under the chassis. Fragments and the blast wave covered the four riflemen. Two died on the spot. The third was thrown into the wall, wounded, tried to raise his weapon, and Billy put him down with a second shot one and a half seconds after the first. The fourth took fragments in the legs and stomach. Our men reached him and tied him up before he fully understood what was happening."
"The driver?"
"Tried to hit the gas when he saw the fifth die, but didn't make it. Fragments punched through the whole vehicle. He was shredded into mince. The van rolled about five meters and stopped."
"Losses?"
"Zero," Jacob said with a breath of relief. "One worker took a small fragment in the shoulder. It caught him through the window. Nothing serious; the medics already removed it. Rosalinda from accounting managed to cut herself on glass. Everyone else is intact."
Zero losses.
A thought-out observation system, sniper positions on neighboring roofs, rapid response protocols we had devised and tested. All of it worked exactly as intended. The paranoia on which I had spent insane money had justified itself in a single evening.
If the boys had not reacted instantly, the grenade would have flown into the accounting office, and four men with rifles would have followed it. How many of ours would now be under white sheets? Eight? Ten? Twenty?
I ran a hand over my face.
"The police?"
"Called immediately. Jennings arrived in twenty minutes and took control of the situation. Official version: attempted armed assault and terrorist act, security responded within the law. Attackers had no documents, weapons unlicensed, van stolen. Jennings talked to the officers, gave the necessary statements, applied pressure where needed."
"All questions with the cops closed?"
"All. It'll be filed as self-defense. The prosecutor won't climb into this."
"Good. I'll call a couple more people just to be sure. Employees?"
Here Jacob fell silent for a moment.
"Scared. Very scared. But everyone thinks it was a terrorist attack, and only because the boss is paranoid did everyone survive. Which, frankly, isn't far from the truth. So many are grateful to you, and no one started any useless sobbing."
Good news.
But the situation was terrifying.
"Tomorrow I'll hold a general meeting. I'll tell them this could have happened to anyone, and the criminals chose this office to make an example. Pure bad luck that the finger pointed at us, but our courageous security knows its job."
"That's your call, boss. Sounds decent."
I looked at Jacob.
"Where's Billy?"
"Still on position. Refused to leave. Says what if they have reinforcements."
I smiled. That bastard made my day.
"Give him my thanks. And tell him he'll receive a bonus and the first of the awards we created. This is exactly the right occasion. Let people know we have a system like the army."
"Understood, boss. Award for bravery?"
"Yes. I think bravery is exactly right."
***
The council gathered the next evening in the conference room on the fourth floor. Curtains drawn, door locked, Wright personally swept the room for bugs an hour before the start.
At the table: me, Jacob, Angleton, Bagley, Wright, Wesley, and Thomas. Hood was present as well, though his territory was mostly finance, but he was good in operational work too.
Angleton sat in his usual corner, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, the ashtray already half full. He looked animated. Not alarmed — animated, like a hound that had finally caught the scent of prey after being kept on a leash too long.
"Jim," I began, "yesterday's raid shows that we have moved from the category of 'annoying obstacle' to 'target for elimination.' We need the full picture. What have you managed to gather?"
Angleton crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He stood and walked to the board, where a map of New York already hung, studded with pins of different colors. Beside it were photographs, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes.
"I must warn you," he said, "what I am about to tell you surprised even me. And as you know, surprising me is not a trivial task."
He looked around at everyone present and began.
"Frankly, I thought I was sufficiently informed about criminal affairs. It turns out I was very wrong. My former specialty, after all, was more global, and I only climbed inside the country when necessary. But now, having taken this matter seriously, a frightening picture has opened up. Scale, organization, resources — all an order of magnitude above my assumptions."
He tapped the map with a pointer.
"Let us begin with the familiar. The Italian Mafia. Five families: Genovese, Gambino, Colombo, Lucchese, Bonanno. A classic hierarchical structure, familiar to anyone even slightly informed about organized crime. At the head of each family is a don; beneath him, an underboss and consigliere; then caporegimes, or simply capos, each managing a crew of ten to twenty soldiers. By our estimates, the five families combined have approximately two thousand members — those who have passed initiation. But their real strength is significantly greater, because there are people who work for the family without formally belonging to it. Altogether, we are talking about ten to fifteen thousand people one way or another connected to the Italian Mafia in New York alone. Annual turnover, by the most conservative estimates, exceeds one hundred million dollars. Construction, unions, ports, gambling, loan-sharking, racketeering. This is the foundation on which everything else stands. Fortunately, they cannot stand one another and have no intention of uniting."
Angleton moved the pointer to Hell's Kitchen.
"Irish groups. The Westies and several smaller clans. Less formal structure than the Italians, no such rigid hierarchy, but they compensate with cohesion and readiness for violence. Significantly fewer fighters: our data suggests three to five hundred active members in the city. Less money too, annual turnover somewhere around twenty million. They control Hell's Kitchen, part of the docks, bookmaking offices on the West Side. Traditional enemies of the Italians, temporary allies when there is a common opponent. Brutal, stubborn, and extremely vindictive."
The pointer moved south.
"Puerto Rican gangs. Spanish Harlem, South Bronx. Less organized than the Italians or Irish, more like a confederation of street gangs than a unified structure. But their numbers are impressive: several thousand people, mostly youths. Heroin, street dealing, racketeering in Latin neighborhoods. Not much money compared to the Italians, but they hold their territory firmly and are ready to die for it without hesitation."
"Mexicans?" Jacob asked.
"Weakly represented for now." Angleton shook his head. "Separate cells tied to moving marijuana across the border, but they have no full structure in New York. That is more a question for the Southwestern states: Texas, California, Arizona. However, supply channels reach here as well, so in a few years they may become a serious factor."
"Chinese triads." Angleton tapped Chinatown. "Tongs. Closed communities, practically impenetrable to outside observation. They control illegal immigration, underground casinos, opium and heroin inside Chinatown. Relatively few fighters, perhaps a couple hundred, but we have the least information on them. They exist parallel to the rest of the criminal world and rarely enter open conflicts unless their own territory is touched."
He paused, took a drag, and nodded toward another cluster of pins.
"Then come the smaller structures: Jewish remnants, Black gangs, biker groups, Albanian and Greek cells, dock crews tied to unions. Individually, they are weaker. Collectively, they create a swamp in which almost every street-level incident may turn out to be connected to someone higher up."
Wesley leaned forward.
"And who had the resources to organize yesterday?"
"Almost anyone from the large players had the resources," Angleton answered. "But not everyone had motive. That narrows the field."
He changed pins on the map, moving from the general criminal layout to several red marks around our office, warehouse routes, and old betting locations.
"Now, about the attack itself. The men were not random street scum. They moved competently. Not brilliantly, but competently. Weapons were clean, serial numbers removed properly, not with a file in some basement. The van was stolen three days earlier in Queens, then stored somewhere indoors. The grenade is military, likely from stocks that leaked after Vietnam. There are several channels through which such goods enter the city. We are checking them."
Bagley, who had been silent until now, added dryly:
"The attempt was too loud for ordinary racketeering and too clumsy for a professional intelligence operation. This is not a warning. This is an attempt to create panic, kill people, and demonstrate that your security cannot protect even your own office."
"That means they wanted witnesses," Thomas said.
"Exactly," Bagley nodded. "Dead employees, a burning office, newspapers writing about a private company unable to control its own people. The goal was not only physical damage, but reputational destruction."
I slowly clenched my fingers on the table.
"Who ordered it?"
Angleton looked at the map again.
"We do not yet have a final answer. But we have a trail."
He pinned a photograph beside the map. A middle-aged Italian man in an expensive suit, captured by a telephoto lens while leaving a restaurant.
"Anthony Russo. Officially, a construction subcontractor from Brooklyn. Unofficially, associated with the Gambino family. Not a made man, but a useful intermediary. Handles contacts with dirty union representatives, bribed city officials, and outside muscle."
Another photograph.
"Joseph 'Joey Nails' Carbone. Soldier connected to the Lucchese family. Specializes in intimidation, debt collection, and, according to our data, arranging outside crews for work the family does not want tied to itself."
A third.
"Luis Alvarez. Puerto Rican gang middleman from the South Bronx. He occasionally supplies expendable men for jobs where deniability matters. Two of the dead from yesterday have probable connections to his people."
Jacob frowned.
"Italians and Puerto Ricans together?"
"Not together. Through layers," Angleton said. "That is what makes it interesting. Someone did not send his own soldiers. Someone hired through intermediaries, using people he did not mind losing. And the traces point toward Italian money, but Puerto Rican hands."
"Gambino or Lucchese?" I asked.
Angleton blew smoke aside.
"Too early. And there is one more complication."
Of course there was.
"There is a name that has surfaced twice in the last three weeks. Not in connection with the attack directly, but on the periphery. Maggia."
The room became quiet.
I knew that word.
Marvel loved to take the real world's filth and add comic-book seasoning to it. The Maggia was not just ordinary organized crime. Depending on the version, it was either a loose criminal syndicate with European roots, or a full shadow structure capable of playing in the same league as supervillains, corrupt politicians, and people who thought lasers were an acceptable tool for a bank robbery.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
Angleton watched me closely.
"You know the name."
"I've heard it," I said carefully. "Not much. Enough to understand that if they're involved, this becomes worse."
"They are not the Mafia in the usual sense," he said. "At least, that is what our preliminary contacts suggest. More of a transnational criminal association. Old European families, money, political ties, a higher level of discipline. They do not rule street corners directly. They use local organizations as tools."
Bagley nodded.
"That would explain the layering. A local family provides channels. A street intermediary provides bodies. The true customer remains above the mud."
Hood, who had been reading a folder, finally spoke.
"Follow the money. The people who died yesterday were not paid enough to justify this risk. That means they were either misled or considered expendable. The chain of payment will reveal more than the bodies."
Wright snorted.
"If the fools did not burn every receipt along the way."
"They didn't," Hood said calmly. "People always leave receipts. Sometimes not on paper, but they leave them."
I looked at Angleton.
"Can you find the name?"
He held my gaze.
"I can find a name. The question is whether it will be the real one, the person who gave the final order, or merely the next cutout."
"I need the real one."
"Then give me time."
"How much?"
"A week for the first reliable picture. Longer for proof that would satisfy a court. But I suspect you are not asking for court."
"No," I said. "I'm asking for reality."
Angleton's lips twitched.
"Then a week."
Wesley looked at the map, his face pale but composed.
"And what about the employees? If they target families next—"
"They won't have the chance," Jacob said. "As of this morning, all key families are under observation. Drivers, rotating guards, emergency contacts. We already moved three families to safe apartments."
"Good," I said. "Expand that. Not only department heads. Anyone with access to sensitive information. Accounting, engineering, legal, logistics."
"That will be a lot of people," Hood noted.
"I know."
"It will be expensive."
"I know that too."
Chen would probably murder me with a ledger if she heard this conversation. But after what happened yesterday, even she would understand. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.
"Do it," I said. "We don't get to economize after someone throws a grenade at our window."
Jacob nodded.
"Already started."
Angleton returned to the board.
"There is another detail. The attack could have been intended not only to destroy morale, but to provoke you."
"Into what?"
"Into striking blindly. Into killing the wrong people. Into starting a war with a group that was only a tool, not the customer. If you respond emotionally, you may weaken yourself and amuse the real enemy."
He said it calmly, but I understood the warning.
Don't act like an idiot.
A useful warning. Timely.
And very annoying.
"I won't strike blindly," I said. "But I will strike."
"Good," Bagley said. "A delayed response is not weakness if the delay produces accuracy."
Hood made a note in his folder.
"I will prepare financial reserves for emergency operations. Quietly."
"Thank you, Bill."
He looked at me over his glasses.
"I am not doing it out of kindness. I am doing it because if the company collapses, my audit will remain unfinished."
"Of course."
Wright gave a short laugh and lit his pipe, despite the fact that he had been told three times not to smoke in this room. Considering Angleton's ashtray, the rule had died long ago.
"On the technical side," Wright said, "I want access to the captured rifle, the van fragments, and anything left of the radio equipment. If they communicated during the approach, there may be traces. Frequencies, crystals, modifications. People are careless with machines."
"You'll get it," Jacob said.
"Good. And I want permission to upgrade the office's technical perimeter. The current system is adequate against idiots. Yesterday suggests our enemies may be slightly above idiot level."
"How much?" I asked automatically.
Wright's smile was unpleasant.
"You really don't want to ask that right now."
I closed my eyes for a second.
Of course.
Of course, after a financial meeting where I was told the company had two months before bleeding out, the next day someone attacked us with rifles and grenades, and now I had to spend even more.
This world had a sense of humor.
A black one.
"Do it," I said.
Wright looked satisfied.
Angleton tapped ash into the tray.
"There is one final preliminary conclusion. Someone has been collecting information on you for a long time. Not complete information, but enough. Your old nickname, Lucky. Your current company. Your office routines. Security layouts, though not accurate enough. The attack was built on outdated assumptions. They expected a softer target."
"Where did they get the information?"
"Partly from old betting circles, I suspect. Partly from current business contacts. Partly through ordinary observation. But there may be an internal trace. Or not. We need to compare all inputs. If we align the administrative pressure you experienced earlier with the Lucky story you told me, suspicion falls on a connection between the Maggia and the Italians. But that remains suspicion, not fact."
"I need a name. A specific name. The man who decided he could send people with rifles and grenades to my office."
"Give me a week," Angleton said, drawing on his cigarette. "A week, and I will know not only who, but why, and how much the performers were paid."
"A week. Good." I looked around the table. "Until then, we move to wartime footing. Reinforced security on all sites. Employees move only under escort. Families of key people under observation. Alpha on full readiness and able to move out for a cleanup at any moment."
"Already done," Jacob nodded. "Since morning."
"Good. And when the name is on the table, we will discuss the response. I have thoughts, but I don't want to build a plan on assumptions."
Angleton nodded approvingly. Bagley too. Those two knew the price of hasty conclusions better than anyone.
"But I will say one thing now," Angleton added. "Looking at the balance of forces in the city, the war may be long. However, we have an advantage. With the help of the security organization" — he made quotation marks with his fingers, perfectly aware of what was really going on there — "we can strike precisely. And in parallel, find ways to reach other factions and set them against the customer. The right information in the right ears works miracles. Let them fight each other while we help the correct side."
"We will discuss that in a week," I nodded. "When we have facts, not guesses."
I knew we would have to fight.
That was Marvel for you. It never happens any other way.
Granted, as always, everything had started too early. Earlier than I had counted on. But even so, I had fortified myself enough to punch back hard.
Hard enough to make one thing clear: it was better not to come at me.
"Everyone dismissed," I said. "Get some rest. Sleepless nights are waiting for us."