The Inverted Pyramid

Book 2: An Alex Vane Media Thriller

by A.C. Fuller

Genres: Financial Thrillers; Legal Thrillers

Synopsis

Journalist Alex Vane is always hunting for the truth. But now the truth may cost him his life...

After exposing a low-level congressman for accepting bribes, Alex attends a conference and runs into an old friend--and flame--Media Studies Professor Camila Gray. But just as they begin to reconnect, Alex's business partner disappears, leaving Alex only one clue: the name of a hacker who was recently murdered. A source hints at a vaster conspiracy, one that may reach all the way up to the fast-approaching presidential election.

Alex and Camila travel to Alex's hometown to find answers, where they race to untangle the connections between the dead hacker and the disappearance of Alex's partner. But all the while, a mysterious source is pulling the strings of their investigation, of the election, and possibly of their lives.

Release date: April 23, 2017

Publisher: Vivid Books

Print pages: 290

Sample

Chapter 1

 

Ground Zero, New York City, Saturday, September 11, 2004, 8:29 a.m.

Aloop Sarin peered through a chain-link fence into the seven-story crater where the Towers had once stood. A large ceremonial pool had been placed at the bottom, brought in for the third anniversary of the attacks, and Sarin counted the ripples in the water. After a moment, lines of computer code began appearing in the spaces between them.

serial_example_msg_t* rcm = (serial_example_msg_t*) call Packet.getPayload(&packet, sizeof(serial_example_msg_t))

The procession began and he shifted his gaze to the victims’ families, shuffling down a makeshift ramp carrying cards, photos, and flowers. When they reached the bottom, the mourners stopped next to the pool, one by one, to leave their remembrances.

Sarin heard their wailing but felt nothing. He rarely felt anything at all. After adjusting the collar of his black turtleneck, he put on a pair of sunglasses, then ran his hands down his crisp black jeans. He checked his phone for the text message he expected at any minute. Nothing.

He knew why Denver Bice had wanted to meet with him, and he knew that he could be in danger, but he didn’t feel it. Ever since he’d taken the job for Bice, his OCD and dissociative tendencies had been amplified. Now, everywhere he looked, he saw the code he’d spent eighteen hours a day writing since the day after the Democratic convention in July.

When the last of the mourners reached the bottom of the crater, they all paused. The crowd that was gathered around the chain-link fence went quiet. 8:46 a.m. A moment of silence for the first plane.

Sarin knelt on the sidewalk and closed his eyes, trying to focus all his energy toward the center of his forehead. He sensed his chest and allowed the prayer to move silently upward, “Jo is prakaar shareer kee prakrti ko samajhata hai vah . . .” He said the prayer in Hindi, then again in English, as he always did, out of respect for his old home and his new. “He who thus understands the nature of the body, and all human relationships based upon it, will derive strength to bear the loss of our dear ones. In the Divine plan, one day each union must end with separation.”

* * *

Hidden in the shadow of the thirty-story Metro building, Denver Bice watched Sarin from a block away. Bice had no idea what comfort the frequent praying brought the man—since Sarin was never comfortable—but he always repeated that same prayer.

A pair of officers paused behind Sarin to let their dog sniff his clothes and shoes. As they moved on, Sarin stood and gazed back down into the crater. A few minutes later, the mourners emerged from the large opening and gathered around a wooden podium at the west end of Ground Zero. Bice watched Sarin, who appeared to be watching the mourners, then pulled a silver flip-phone out of his pocket and tapped at the keys.

Traffic in the financial district. Meet at Battery Park in 15?

He sent the text, then watched Sarin reach into his back pocket, pull out his phone, and stare at the screen. Sarin’s movements were precise and considered as he turned and slowly surveyed the area. Bice knew the distance was too great for him to be recognized, but even so, he stepped back and leaned casually against the building. Sarin was cautious. And brilliant. He’d arranged the meeting at Ground Zero because, on this morning, it would be the safest place in the city. But he was also obedient. The question was whether he’d be stupid enough to respond.

After completing a 360-degree turn, Sarin tapped his phone.

A moment later, Bice’s vibrated with the message: K.

* * *

Sarin stopped at the edge of a crowd watching Mayor Bloomberg step up to a podium. He told himself he’d join them briefly, then go straight home. The day was warming, but he was always a little cold, so he tugged his turtleneck up over his chin.

“It has been said,” the mayor began, “that a child who loses his parents is an orphan, a man who loses his wife is a widower, a woman who loses her husband is a widow. But there is no name for a parent who loses a child, for there are no words to describe this pain.”

The mayor’s words barely registered, and his face blurred into lines of black code.

serial_example_msg_t* rcm = (serial_example_msg_t*)call Packet.getPayload(&packet, sizeof(serial_example_msg_t));

Sarin desperately wanted to feel something. Sorrow, or maybe empathy for the victims. And rage. He wanted to feel rage toward Denver Bice. All he knew was that he’d been cheated and was most likely in danger. But each time he found the conviction to leave, he lost track of it in the cloud of code racing through his mind.

He closed his eyes. Now he saw the code scrolling in white over a black background.

if (rcm == NULL) {return;}

if (call Packet.maxPayloadLength() < sizeof(serial_example_msg_t)) {return;}

“Gooooooal!” Someone was shouting from a nearby soccer field and Sarin opened his eyes. Children laughed and shrieked. Joy. That must be joy.

Looking up at the balcony of an apartment building a block to the south, he read a banner hanging from a window: NO BLOOD FOR OIL. In a window next to it, a campaign sign: BUSH/CHENEY 2004. Conviction. Meaning. Those people believed in something. He knew the election was in full swing—and even that he might be playing a major role in it—but he wasn’t sure why it mattered.

He focused on the red and blue lettering on the signs, but, after a moment, they too dissolved into code.

The family members of the victims began reading names, some through heavy tears. “Abramson. Abromowitz. Acer.” Grief. Mourning. He knew these things were important, but he didn’t know why. He had to take it on faith.

Sarin knelt at the edge of the crowd and repeated the prayer three times.

“ . . . In the Divine plan, one day each union must end with separation.” As he stood, he decided to go straight home, but instead, he walked toward Church Street, smoothing his jeans over his thighs every eight steps.

The voices of the mourners followed him. “Alton. Amber.”

He knew he shouldn’t go, but he was going.

“Bryant. Byes. Carson.”

Ten minutes later, Sarin stood in front of the World Peace Memorial statue in Battery Park, studying the dents in the massive gold ball. What was he doing there?

“Decide to do something, then do it,” he said to himself. But before his words could turn into action, white code appeared in the dusty cracks of the statue.

if (rcm == NULL) {return;}

if (call Packet.maxPayloadLength() < sizeof(serial_example_msg_t)) {return;}

“Take off your sunglasses.” Bice’s voice came from behind him, his voice thin, like he was running out of air.

Sarin turned. “Why?” His reply was quiet and clipped, but it echoed in his head.

“I don’t think you understand our relationship, Booth Buy.”

Sarin took off his glasses. “It’s Bhootbhai. And please do not call me that.” He spoke without an accent, except when he said his own nickname: two rapid syllables of soft-edged Hindi. He knew Bice didn’t care, but correct distinctions were important. “I asked you to please not call me that.”

Bice took off a pair of silver-mirrored sunglasses and stowed them in the inside pocket of his light gray suit. “Have you thought any more about our talk?”

Sarin heard voices and noticed a pair of joggers on the walkway along the water. When they’d passed, he turned back to Bice but looked at the ground. “I’ve thought about it.”

Bice took Sarin’s chin in his hand, turning his face until their eyes met. “And?”

Sarin jerked his chin free and looked back at the monument. “Did you know that they moved this here from World Trade Center Plaza? Some people wanted it to be repaired, but they left it exactly how it was after the attacks. There’s something to that, I think. Honor. Memory. Truth.”

Bice scoffed. “Everyone in New York knows that.”

Sarin pressed his hands into his thighs. “I do not accept your new offer. You cannot lower the price when a job is done. I delivered what I promised.”

“I already knew half of what you found.”

“But the other half, only I could find.”

Bice ran a hand across his forehead and through his hair, which was dyed so dark it matched the black of his polished wingtips. “I’ll pay one and a half million.”

“No.”

“I know things about you,” Bice said. “The Chinese weapons system hack. The Russian stock exchange crash last year.”

“Maybe. But would someone else take your word for it?”

Bice stepped forward so that his heel pressed down on the tip of Sarin’s shoe. He shifted his weight until Sarin’s big toe was crushed. Pain. This is pain. With the pain came an immediate urge to urinate, and Sarin shifted his gaze to a porta potty across the lawn.

Bice stepped back. “I’m going to make this very simple, Bhootbhai. One point eight million. Final offer.”

Sarin watched a ferry glide across the water toward the Statue of Liberty, then looked into Bice’s pale gray eyes. They blurred and he saw code that revealed itself with the rhythm of his toe pain. Sarin curled his throbbing toe inside his shoe as the pain shot up his leg. He clenched against a bladder spasm. “Okay. One point eight million. An additional one point three over what you have paid.”

“Good, and there’s something else.”

“I need to use the bathroom.” Sarin turned quickly and limped across the lawn without looking back at Bice. He stepped reluctantly into a large, handicapped-accessible porta potty, latched the door using his elbow, and stared at the blue plastic wall in front of him as he relieved himself. More code scrolled by.

if (call Packet.maxPayloadLength.

When he finished, he zipped his fly, straightened his pants, and folded a piece of single-ply toilet paper in his hand before reaching for the latch. As he pulled the metal bolt, the door swung open and a fist smashed into his face. Sarin crumpled to the floor, hands covering his face.

Bice stepped inside, slid the bolt back into the locked position, and glanced down at him.

When Sarin looked up, a mixture of blood and tears in his eyes, Bice’s face was cloudy, like rice water. Anger. Sarin knew he should be feeling anger. He should fight back. Then he thought of the urine, the sticky plastic floor. He tried to scooch himself up the wall of the porta potty, but collapsed back down, arms stretched out at his sides. He reached to straighten his pants, but Bice stepped on his hand, grinding it into a cold wetness on the floor. Sarin’s eyes were clearing slowly, and Bice’s face came into focus, red and shaking. Jaw tight. Eyes wide.

“Whom, exactly, did you speak to about what you found?” Bice asked.

“What?”

“You spoke with someone from the Kerry campaign.”

Sarin said nothing.

Bice shifted all his weight onto Sarin’s fingers, which cracked and popped. “Why didn’t you just take the money and go away?”

“I wanted what you promised.”

“I know you can’t tell what I’m feeling,” Bice said. “I know you don’t know what’s about to happen, so I’ll tell you. You’re about to die.”

Sarin looked inside himself for the will to fight back, but all he found was the prayer. He turned his head so his right cheek lay flat on the floor, trying to ignore the dampness on his ear as the words emanated silently from the center of his chest and filled his body.

In the Divine plan, one day each union must end with separation.

The last thing he saw was a single line of black code, scrolling by on the sliver of light underneath the plastic door as Bice crushed his cheekbone with repeated thrusts of his heel.

 

Chapter 2

 

Sunday, September 12, 2004, 105th and Broadway, New York City

Alex had one eye on the vegetables sautéing in a small pan on his two-burner stove, the other on Greta’s slender curves. She was sleeping on her stomach, and her straight black hair glistened all the way down her pale back to her red silk pajama bottoms.

A blister formed on the skin of a green pepper and popped loudly in the pan. Greta rolled onto her side. If she woke up before the food was ready, she’d try to pull him back into bed. Not that he would mind climbing back in for a bit, but if it were up to her, they’d spend all day there—again—which was beginning to take a toll on his work. If he woke her up with food, he thought he might be able to get out of the apartment before noon.

He cracked three eggs into a small pan of simmering water, then stirred the veggies. They had caramelized, so he turned the burner off. The click caused Greta to sit up in bed.

“Happy anniversary,” Alex said.

He arranged the veggies and poached eggs on plates and crossed from the kitchenette to the king-sized bed with just two large steps.

Greta shook her hair out and tied it into a messy bun. “Thanks, baby. But what anniversary is this?”

He handed her a plate. “You moved in a year ago.”

“We’ve been together almost two years.”

“Yeah, but you moving in was a big deal for me.”

“And that was a year ago?”

“A year ago today.” He leaned in and pecked her on the cheek, but she grabbed the back of his head and pulled him in hard.

Alex thought about his Blackberry, which would ring any minute. He drew back. “Tea?”

She frowned as he stepped into the kitchenette and returned with a cup of decaf green tea. She set the plate on the bedside table, took the tea, and ran her free hand through his hair as he sat down next to her.

He glanced at the untouched plate of food. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

She put the cup next to the plate and tapped her iPod, which was docked on a bright blue speaker. “I can eat after,” she said, reaching out to grasp his arm.

With graceful strength, Greta eased Alex over her body and onto the center of the bed. She moved to the beat as Queen’s “Killer Queen” filled the room, and in one smooth movement, lifted her legs toward the ceiling, slid off her pajama bottoms, and rolled on top of him.

She was tugging at his boxer shorts when he said, “I’ve got a really important call coming in. Remember, Cooper Whyte from The Times?”

Straddling his hips, she leaned in, her hair tickling his neck. “C’mon, you’re about to leave for four days.”

She kissed him, but he turned away. “I just really need to take this call when it comes in.”

“Baby, can you just be ten percent more like Freddy Mercury right now? Take your shirt off.”

He yanked his t-shirt off and held it wadded up in his hand, pointing it at her repeatedly as he spoke. “I will take off my shirt, but only for getting-dressed-for-the-day reasons. I have to stay focused, Greta. We burned The Times yesterday, so they were forced to run one of their we-just-got-scooped-by-a-tiny-Web-site-and-now-we’ve-gotta-write-a-story-about-their-story stories. James says it’s a big deal.” He threw the t-shirt across the room into the hamper.

His Blackberry rang and he eased her off him, then rolled toward the bedside table to grab it. “Gimme two minutes.”

He stood up and pressed “Talk” without taking his eyes off Greta. “Hello? . . . Yup. Hi, Cooper . . . Lemme guess why you’re calling. Your editor is pissed that you got beat, again, by a start-up Web site with a staff of three?” He began pacing the room. “He simply can’t believe that The Gray Lady, the paper of record, could lose on a story of this magnitude to a site with an office in a loft in Washington Heights? . . . Sure, you can talk . . . You want to interview all three of us? . . . No, I don’t mind helping you. Every time you write a story about one of our stories, we get more hits and make your old buddy Lance more money.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Plus, I get to talk about my two favorite things. Writing, and me.”

Greta wrapped her arms around his chest and patted his belly, which was slightly more padded than it had been when she moved in. Between the comforts of domestic life and the stresses of running a start-up, he’d let himself go a little. He was six-foot-two and still strong, but not as toned as he used to be.

“Meet us at our executive office suite,” Alex said, “otherwise known as James’s apartment. I’ll be up there in the next half hour.”

He glanced down at Greta, who had nestled in his lap and was looking up with something between a smirk and a scowl. He smiled at her and spoke into the phone.

“Actually, give me an hour or two.”

* * *

About an hour later, Alex stepped out of the shower and began dressing.

Greta was reading in bed, half covered by sheets. “What time will you be home?”

Alex buttoned up a long-sleeved black shirt and patted down his hair. “Seven or eight. We’ve got to finalize plans for the trip.”

She closed the book as he sat on the bed and put on a pair of gray jeans.

“And why do you have to go?” she asked. “I’ve had a bad feeling about this conference for a while. Can’t James go by himself?”

“He can’t. Where’s my phone?”

Greta tossed the blankets around, then found his Blackberry on the bedside table and scooted across the bed to hand it to him. “Are you gonna go to Bainbridge to visit your old house or see any friends?”

“The conference schedule is pretty tight.”

“Isn’t it only, like, half an hour from Seattle on the ferry?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Scaredy-cat.” Greta tossed a pillow at him, but it landed a foot away. “I go to Germany and Japan every year. Hometowns are important. Family is important.”

“I’m happy to meet your family, but my family is dead.”

“Sorry. I mean . . . I know.”

Alex let it roll off him, as he always tried to do when family came up. “You know, Bearon did compare me to a musician once.”

“Do I want to know which one?”

“Probably not. It was that one tall Backstreet Boy. The older one. With the dark hair.”

“I thought you said musician.”

“You know the one I mean, though?”

“Yeah. He’s doable enough, if he doesn’t open his mouth to sing.”

Alex finished dressing, grabbed his laptop bag, and stepped to the door. “Objectify much? You know you’re an elitist snob, right?”

“I’m only a snob when it comes to music. And shoes. And body-care products. And . . . pretty much everything, I guess. It’s not my fault that I know what’s good and what isn’t. It’s why I picked you.” She paused until he met her eyes. “I love you, you know.”

Alex opened the door, stepped into the hall, and swiveled back around, breaking into his cheesy news anchor voice. “In other developments, local bodyworker to the stars Greta Mori has announced, after months of deliberation, that she does, in fact, love gifted reporter Alex Vane, who, according to reports, is as thoughtful as he is handsome. How will he respond? Details at seven.”

Greta crinkled her nose. “Very funny, dear. You know, every man has his own way of protecting himself from his feelings.”

Alex inched farther into the hallway, trying to play it cool. Greta had said “I love you” before, and Alex had said it, too, but this time it felt different. Like she needed him to say it back.

“And you’re saying humor is my way of protecting myself?”

She smiled again. “Humor, work, rigidity about what you eat.”

“You have to admit, I’ve calmed down about the last one a bit.”

“A bit.”

Alex flashed her a smile. “I really do have to go.”

“Say hi to James for me.”