The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

at the epicenter of technological developments that have made this a better world for over one hundred years. The Kirkwood name stands as a bellweather example of all that is exceptional in business and America. The finest technology genes are written into the DNA of every employee.”

Before Peter could respond, Kirkwood stopped and leaned on the table across from Peter. His cheeks were glowing orange-red. He reminded Peter of a cockatiel.

“I employ tens of thousands of people. Good jobs. Good salaries. I support this company and the entire country. When we are needed, I answer the call. That is more than most can say. You agree?”

His voice was getting higher in pitch. A fine mist spewed from the round mouth of his round head.

“Yes, sir.” Peter’s anxiety rose. Kirkwood, the mild-mannered CEO, looked like he was either going to jump across the table and attack him, or explode.

“Big and successful global companies do big successful global company things. It is how we win and they lose. From what I understand, you think we have taken some improper actions. That we shouldn’t share technology with our Chinese business partners to get their business and investment? How do you think we grow or make money? It is what we have to do.”

Kirkwood was leaning so far over the table his sweaty palms slid and he lost his balance. He pushed back and regained his footing. The shock seemed to calm him. He continued.

“I will never allow Kirkwood to be compared to the likes of Enron. Or Waste Management. Or Worldcom. Health South. Tyco. Freddie Mac, and certainly not Lehman. No FBI. No SEC.”

Then, just as suddenly, the atmosphere changed again. Kirkwood stood straight, and his eyes looked around the room. His voice was back to a soft tenor. His face was returning to its pink fleshy tone.

Kirkwood walked to him, his hand out in front, offering a handshake. Peter stood.

“I hope you understand now. These are important times for our company.” Kirkwood led Peter toward the door. “I want to thank you for all the wonderful things you did for the company. We asked you to do the impossible in very little time, and you did that and more. Thank you.”

Kirkwood opened the door for Peter, and with his hand in the small of his back, shoved Peter out of the Jacob Kirkwood Boardroom.

On the drive home, Peter decided he would let whatever happens happen. His concentration was on getting home and on when he would hear from Bridger next—not the car following him.

Peter pulled into his garage as the trailing car rolled down the street, made a loop around the block, and stopped.

Peter lugged his body through the garage door and into the mudroom off the kitchen. He expected to smell dinner or hear the TV tuned to some cartoon. He didn’t. Then he noticed the door to the kitchen, which was always open, was closed.

“Janelle?” Peter whispered. “Janelle?”

He went back and looked in the garage. Her car was there. Panic started to set in. He grabbed a broom that was against the wall and held it in front of him like a spear. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the kitchen door.

“Peter. Finally. We have to get going,” Bridger said. Bridger was sitting at the table, eating a rather large sandwich. “Janelle has shown me your files on your employer. They have been very, very bad boys.” He pointed at the broom still in a spearing position. “Nice broom.”

“Hi, honey.” With a smile, Janelle got up and gave the stunned Peter a kiss on the cheek. “James is at Chuck’s house. Give me that.” She took the broom and walked to the mudroom.

The sight of Bridger being at his house, sitting at the table eating a sandwich, talking to his wife was somewhat disconcerting.

“Peter, we have to go.” Bridger got up, took one more large bite of sandwich. “Yummy. Roast beef. Thanks, Janelle.”

“What? Where?”

Peter had never seen Bridger so excited.

“If the mountain won’t come to us, we have to blow up the mountain.”

56

The Stuff of Fiction Books and Movies

Lombard, Illinois

Bridger knew Chapel wasn’t the kind of guy who met in dark alleys. He didn’t do recognition signals. SDRs. Disguises. Any of that espionage stuff. That was far beneath Danforth Chapel. Nope. Chapel liked the good life—the very good life.

In the rare instance he needed to personally obtain information, Chapel preferred to do it over a fabulous meal. His source would carry a briefcase containing the secrets into a private room in an expensive restaurant. The person would place it under the table. Then they would eat a fine meal. After dessert, the source would leave. The case remained behind. Chapel would have an after-dinner drink. Congenial and satisfying.

The stuff of fiction books and movies.

Bridger knew it was his one exploitable weakness. That was why when Bridger and Peter pulled into the lot near the Capital Grille, Lombard, the Devil knew exactly what to expect.

“He is a predictable pompous ass.” Bridger laughed and slapped Peter on his shoulder. He was in a good mood. “He takes the same suite in the classic Drake Hotel in Oak Brook. Medium rare steaks at the Capital Grille. All close to Kirkwood HQ. No time wasted sitting in traffic.”

Bridger looked at Peter.

“Ironic, huh? This is where we had our first date,” Bridger said.

“I will mark it in my calendar and cherish the date forever,” Peter replied.

Bridger laughed, then said, “Here he is.”

They watched the Lincoln Town Car pull up to the valet entrance of the steak house. A mountain-sized security man got out, looked around, and opened the door. Chapel got out. He buttoned his Gieves & Hawkes, glanced left and right, then entered, followed by the guard.

The driver backed the car into the end parking space parallel to the building. He got out of the Town Car and walked toward the entrance. He stopped just outside the door and took a standing position under the green awning covering