Authors: Lauren Rowe
“Jonas.” Her voice is strained.
Oh my God, she’s a wreck. “Baby, you’re okay.” I kiss her gently.
“Jonas, please.” She sounds like she’s got hypothermia. She’s practically stuttering.
“I’m listening, baby. What is it? Tell me.”
She closes her eyes and tilts her face up to mine. “Take me back up to the suite, Jonas.” Her cheeks flush. “Take me up to the suite and fuck my brains clean out of my head.”
Sarah
In addition to Special Agent Eric and his boss from Las Vegas, there are no less than fifteen people in dark suits crowded into this conference room with Jonas and me at FBI headquarters in Washington D.C., all of them with hard eyes and humorless expressions, variously identified as representing the FBI, CIA, Secret Service, DEA, ATF, Department of Justice, and, holy hell, the Department of Defense, too. And, in addition to that whole crowd, there are three scary looking dudes who curtly declined to identify themselves at the outset of the meeting four hours ago and haven’t spoken since.
Special Agent Eric, who looks like a kindergartner on take-your-kid-to-work-day amongst this room full of seasoned agents, called us yesterday and told us to get our butts to Washington on the next plane, and that’s exactly what we did. According to Eric, my report ignited a firestorm of attention within the FBI, beginning with his boss in Las Vegas and quickly ascending up the chain of command to the highest power-players in Washington D.C.
It seems when two wealthy and respected business moguls (who don’t appear on a single government watch list) claim the U.S. Secretary of Defense is unwittingly involved in a billion-dollar crime syndicate that supplies money and weapons to aid Russian aggression—and when those two business moguls are willing to sacrifice their own reputations and maybe even incriminate themselves by coming forward—and when they outline their allegations in a rock-solid fifty-page report with a detailed exhibit log and promise to turn over an easy half-billion to back up their claims, the FBI takes fucking notice. And—holy crappola—so do lots of other scary looking people with fancy badges, too.
It’s just Jonas and me sitting here on the proverbial hot seat—Henn, Josh, and Kat (a.k.a. “Oksana Belenko”) stayed behind in Las Vegas to make the money transfers at our signal. To say I’ve been crapping my pants for the past four hours in this conference room would be the understatement of the year. I’ve tried to sound calm and collected, of course, but I think I’ve mostly come across as a total and complete spazzoid.
Jonas, on the other hand, has been as cool as a cucumber throughout the whole meeting (other than the few times his knee has jiggled under the table). Jonas has been charming. Disarming. Forthcoming. Honest. I’m learning a lot about quiet confidence watching him. He’s personable without bending over backwards to make people like him—and as a result, they obviously
respect
him. Watching Jonas handle the room like a boss for the past four hours has made it plain to me why he’s been so successful in the business world.
Before walking into this room today, Jonas and I agreed we’d be completely honest at all times, no matter what—and we’ve stuck with our plan, even when our answers to questions have embarrassed or possibly even incriminated us. And I think we made the right call. Because although the meeting started out feeling distinctly adversarial, I’m beginning to feel like all these hardass people in dark suits actually believe every word we say.
My palms are sweaty. I wipe them on my skirt.
“Who else knows about this?” the Department of Defense guy asks, holding up my report. “Anyone at all besides you two and your three team members?” He looks at his notes. “Katherine Morgan, Josh Faraday, and Peter Hennessey?”
“No one at all besides us five has seen the report or knows anything about its contents,” Jonas says, his voice strong and firm. “We sent a few isolated voicemails to a certified Ukrainian translator—but with no context or identifying information whatsoever.”
“You’re sure? No one else besides you five knows anything about this?” the Defense guy asks, scrutinizing Jonas’ face.
I glance at one of the CIA guys, the one who seems most capable of chopping us up and stuffing us into the trunk of his car—and he’s hanging on Jonas’ every word.
“No one,” Jonas says. “It turns out Sarah’s unwittingly been employed by a large-scale prostitution ring—not exactly résumé fodder for an aspiring lawyer—and I unwittingly paid a quarter of a million bucks to a prostitution ring to buy unlimited sex for a year.” He looks at me apologetically and I smile at him. “And if that weren’t enough for either of us to prefer discretion here, it turns out we’re dealing with drug and weapons traffickers whose higher agenda is aiding Russian imperialism. If that’s not motivation to keep our report on a need-to-know basis, I don’t know what is.”
The Department of Justice guy snickers and a couple other seemingly senior guys smirk. Good sign.
“We know we’re up to our eyeballs in this shit, excuse my language. Believe me, we’re not eager to spread the word about any of this.”
That seems to satisfy the Department of Defense guy, as well as everyone else in the room.
“As you can understand, my only concern is protecting this woman right here,” Jonas says, touching my arm. “We aren’t here to expose anyone, including ourselves—and would prefer not to, given our personal involvement. We don’t care how you want to go about this, how you want to spin it, what information you might choose to disseminate or not. It’s your strategy—your show—and you won’t hear a peep from us on any of it. We’re only here to give you the information, help in any way we can, and then get the hell out of your way.”
That was well said. And not a single f-bomb in the whole speech, too. I guess Jonas is Polite Jonas today.
“At the end of the day, all I care about is fucking them up the ass so hard they can’t even fucking hobble when we’re done with them,” Jonas adds, grabbing my hand.
So much for no f-bombs.
“Ditto,” I say. “I have no interest in humiliating or exposing anyone.” I look pointedly at the Department of Defense guy, trying to convey I’m talking about his boss, the Secretary of Defense. It must have crossed his mind we could be planning to blackmail his boss. “And also ditto on that whole f-bomb-laden last part.” I smile sheepishly. I’m freaking out. I might be Orgasma the All-Powerful behind closed doors with Jonas, but being a superhero in a room like this is seriously testing my self-confidence.
All the big wigs in the room look around, gauging each other’s reactions.
“We’re the good guys,” I say earnestly, looking at all of them. “We’re not here to harm anyone—we’re here to do the right thing. I just want to keep the bad guys from hurting me or anyone else again.” My voice wobbles at that last part and Jonas puts a protective arm around me.
The most senior CIA guy is looking at me like he believes me. And so are the silver-haired Secret Service guy and the FBI woman who looks like she could eat me for breakfast. Oh my God, they
all
believe us. I know they do.
The bigwig FBI agent exchanges a particularly long look with the Department of Defense guy. “And you’ll turn everything over to us?” he says.
“Yes,” Jonas says. “Everything.”
Everyone nods, satisfied.
“Now, with respect to the money,” Jonas says. “My team is in Vegas, ready to make the transfers into an offshore account. I just have to give them the word.” He holds up his phone. “I got a text from my guy five minutes ago, confirming all the money’s still in place and they’re ready to move. But time is of the essence, obviously—Belenko could transfer every dime out of the country any time.”
Jonas’ knee starts jiggling under the table. I put my hand on his thigh and it stops.
The bigwig FBI boss motions to the Las Vegas FBI woman, and they confer quietly for a solid three minutes, shielding their mouths with their hands to prevent the rest of us from reading their lips. Everyone else in the room sits patiently.
“Okay,” Mr. FBI guy finally says, pulling back from his colleague.
I’m not sure what that means. Okay what? There’s an awkward pause.
Jonas fills the silence. “We do have a few small conditions before we transfer the funds to you,” he says flatly.
There’s a collective sigh of wariness throughout the room.
The FBI ringleader glares at Jonas, blatantly mistrustful. If this were a cartoon, he’d be saying, “Dangnabbit!” right now.
Jonas isn’t daunted at all. “I want immunity for everyone on my team regarding our various affiliations with The Club, and also with respect to our investigation.”
Mr. FBI nods. It’s not clear if he’s agreeing to this condition or simply acknowledging the request has been made.
“We’ll help you guys with anything and everything you need from us, answer any and all questions, give you whatever sworn statements you need to aid your investigation. I’ll pay my hacker to fly out here and help you assimilate everything we hand off to you, and I’ll make sure he assists you guys with your investigation, too, if you think you need him. But our five names will be completely expunged from all records. We were never involved with The Club or this investigation in any way. Accordingly, the files we’ll be handing-off to you will not contain any reference to Sarah, my brother, or myself. We’ve wiped the files clean of all such references.” He puts his hand on my thigh under the table.
The main CIA guy and the Department of Defense guy share a glance.
“But believe me, even without mention of us in the records, you’ll have everything you need to nail them six ways from Sunday,” Jonas says.
The FBI guy is about to speak, but the Defense guy cuts him off.
“Your computer guy altered the files you’d be handing off to us?” he asks.
“Correct. To delete record of Sarah’s employment and my and my brother’s Club activities.”
Mr. Defense guy purses his lips. “Do you still have access to the unredacted data?”
Jonas hesitates, apparently considering his answer. “Yes,” he finally says, honestly. I’m glad he answered truthfully.
“Does anyone but you have access to that original data?”
“No.”
Defense guy nods. “And you’ll provide us with your hacker’s services, without limitation?”
“Of course. For as long as you want him.”
Defense guy looks happy to hear that. Maybe Defense guy is thinking about erasing a certain someone else’s name from all the records, too—wink, wink.
“I’ll make sure Peter Hennessey’s available to assist you. Trust me, you’ll be thrilled to have him on your team—he loves wearing a white hat.” Jonas smirks.
There’s a long pause, as several sub-groups from different agencies confer quietly.
“We agree to all your conditions,” Mr. Defense guy says flatly, without conferring with anyone.
The bigwig FBI guy looks peeved, but he doesn’t contradict the Department of Defense guy.
“All right,” Mr. FBI says, a brief scowl flickering across his face. “Any other
conditions,
Mr. Faraday?”
“Yes.”
Mr. FBI guy bristles. Obviously, that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear.
“I’ll instruct my team to transfer all but one percent of The Club’s funds into an offshore account for your exclusive access,” Jonas says. “You’ll be enabled to unilaterally change passwords and take immediate and sole custody of the funds.”
“And what about the remaining one percent you don’t plan on transferring to us?” Mr. FBI guy asks.
“Our finder’s fee,” Jonas replies. “Five and a half million and change.”
Mr. FBI guy walks over to the corner of the room to confer with one of the Department of Justice guys in the back for a moment. “That’s a reasonable finder’s fee,” he says, returning to his chair. “Capped at one percent of whatever funds you ultimately transfer to us.”
“There will be several beneficiaries who’ll share in that one percent fund,” Jonas says. “And I want all of them to partake in their money without taxation—completely tax-free.”
FBI guy glances across the room at Department of Justice guy. “No one in this room has jurisdiction regarding individual tax implications on receipts of funds,” Mr. FBI guy says evenly.
“But I’m confident
someone
in this room can make it happen, just this once, since it’s a non-negotiable condition here,” Jonas says.
Indubitably,
I think.
Bigwig FBI guy looks at the Department of Justice guy again and gets a nod. CIA guy walks across the room and leans in for a pow-wow with FBI guy.
“As long as you tell us
today
who’s going to share in that money, and in what amounts, we will agree to the tax-free status of any amounts distributed from that fund,” FBI guy finally says. He sounds annoyed. “But after we cut this deal with you today, it’s final. No new names.”
“No problem,” Jonas says. “I can identify all beneficiaries right now. Jonas Faraday at five hundred thousand, Peter Hennessey at a million, and Katherine Morgan at a million—for an aggregate total of two and a half million—and the balance of the pot, approximately three million and change, will go to Miss Sarah Cruz.”
“No, actually,” I pipe in, “that’s not accurate.”
Jonas gapes at me, blindsided.
I’ve been thinking about the three-million-dollar thing quite a bit since Jonas first suggested it to me, and I’m certain I’ve got a better way to distribute that money than handing it all to me. “The team members Jonas just identified, including myself, will share an aggregate pot of three and a half million and change.
One
million and change, not three, will go to me. The remaining two million dollars flat will be distributed in equal shares to certain beneficiaries who aren’t on our team.”
Jonas is dumbfounded.
“In order to maintain the strictest levels of confidentiality about this whole situation, I think the two million dollars should be distributed by the U.S. Government to these beneficiaries instead of by us. Are you amenable to that?”
Mr. FBI guy is noncommittal. “It depends. Let’s hear it.”