Zapwired, p.4
Zapwired, page 4
Now, my bags collected, I sat in a London cab stuck in traffic, giving me ample time to think about where the toy industry was headed.
It stung to realize that our business in America was imploding. The abrupt bankruptcy of Toys Galore had failed to warn retail leaders, especially MyMart and Arrow, that tough times might be ahead. Instead of taking a stand and becoming more aggressive by expanding their offerings, they carried on as always, risk averse, with profit margins remaining their prime motivating factor.
I hated to think where it might all lead.
As the cab neared Buckingham Palace, I once more admired the gold tint lining the top of the steel gate; the King’s Guards in red tunics standing ramrod straight at each sentry post.
Within a few minutes, we pulled up at my hotel, The St. James Court. I counted out 75 pounds; the equivalent of $98 American.
When I stepped out of the taxi, a car directly behind drew my attention—a black Volvo with windows so darkly tinted it was impossible to see inside. I was sure it was the same car I’d spotted at the airport, a small decal of Big Ben attached to the bottom right corner of its windshield.
I took a step toward it. The Volvo pulled away with a squeal of tires.
Dalton again, I surmised, keeping me in his sights, no doubt.
*
I checked into Room 241 and picked up a dozen messages, mostly confirmations of preset appointments.
The larger manufacturers had booked all the suites in the hotel, so I had to compromise by using a regular bedroom and rearranging the furniture for my meetings.
A carton had been forwarded in advance of my arrival containing an early version of the box in which Zapwired would be packaged, along with promotional material. I’d transported the sample myself and unwrapped it with a combination of excitement and trepidation.
Right on time, there was a knock on my door. I opened it and said hello to Doug Flood, from the Australian company of Peacock and Lacey. Doug was a young-looking fifty, with the rugged features of an outdoorsman, from his unruly brown hair to his ruddy cheeks. I often teased him about his company’s name, how it best suited a law firm.
“Hello, mate,” he said, greeting me with a powerful handshake, his eyes alight with his usual charm. “Somethin’ brilliant to show me, have you?”
Doug would be the first buyer to see Zapwired, so I was anxious. My choices were to demonstrate the product, pointing out its features and benefits—or say and do nothing. I chose the latter, handing the game to the buyer, and waited.
It didn’t take long for Doug to get the hang of the game selection he tried. His eyes lit up each time he experienced the jolt of success or the zap of failure. After 15 minutes it became a struggle to get the console away from him. When I told him the low wholesale price, Doug immediately committed to 50,000 units for the Australian market.
And so it went for the rest of the day. Italy jumped in for 75,000, Spain for 55,000. Germany and France each bumped those figures up to 100,000 apiece. By the time cocktail-hour came around, I was finding it difficult to rein in my enthusiasm. Seldom had I met with such success on a new-to-market product. It seemed too good to be true. Which proved prophetic, as I discovered the following afternoon during my 4:00 p.m. meeting with J. P. Broley, my distributor in Great Britain and my last appointment of the day.
J. P. was in his late fifties with a full head of white hair and nearing retirement. No one knew what his initials stood for and he never told. His permanent scowl gave him a curmudgeonly look, while in fact, he was the opposite.
When I gave him the game, he went through the gyrations, playing with the unit and yelping out loud as the jolts and zaps took effect. I told him what his cost would be. Broley put the game down and slowly shook his head.
“I’ve seen almost the identical thing at this show from one of your competitors.”
“What!” I said, stunned.
“Yes. Practically the same bloody product. And his price is twenty dollars less.
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.” He searched through his briefcase and pulled out a business card. “Here—you can have this. I don’t know this fellow from Adam, and I’m not sure I’d trust him. You should check him out for yourself. He’s a few floors above you, in Room 541.”
I took the card in hand: Simon Tractenberg–Ninth Wave Electronics. The company, like Hillel, was based in Israel, so the irony wasn’t lost on me. But Zapwired was supposedly a proprietary product. Hillel held a registered patent on it. Jeremy had said so, and I believed him.
*
I was on the fly the moment Broley left my room, dashing along the corridor to the elevator, then up to the fifth floor. The toy industry was known for illegal knockoffs. This had to be another one. But the Distoy exhibitors like me worked by appointment only; there were no walk-ins and no exceptions. So, I’d have to think of a way to get into this guy’s showroom.
I paused. Often, room service came by uninvited during the day to refresh the drinking water and ask if anything else was needed. I would use this now as my ruse.
I double-knocked on 541’s door and called out, “Room Service,” using my best imitation of a British accent. Nothing happened. I waited, then banged again, louder this time. Still no response. I returned to the elevator and rode to the lobby floor, where I made a beeline for Reception.
“Hello,” I said to the attractive young woman behind the counter, “I’m Blair Anderson, here with the Distoy group,” then lied: “I had an appointment with Simon Tractenberg of Ninth Wave Electronics in Room 541. But he isn’t answering when I knock. Can you try that room for me?”
She turned away, typed on her computer keyboard, then immediately came back to me. “Sorry, Mr. Anderson, but Mr. Tractenberg has already checked out.”
I thanked the woman and left, disappointed by the news. The length of the show was three days, with the first two being the most important, as this was when the “big” deals were usually consummated. Some exhibitors cut out the final day entirely. It was my bad luck that this guy had gone AWOL.
The minute I returned to my room I was on the phone to Israel.
“Who is he?” Jeremy asked.
I filled him in on the man’s name, company, and his lowball price. “What’s going on?” I asked.
He avoided my question. “I’ll look into it, Blair. In the meantime, carry on as if nothing’s happened. Did anyone object to our early release date?”
“No one.”
“Are you getting commitments?”
“So far.”
“Good. Keep it up. Call me when you return to New York.”
I was reluctant to let my friend off the phone, certain he was holding something back. There were too many questions that needed to be answered.
“Blair—”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Relax. I’ll get to the bottom of this. Okay?”
“Okay.” I slowly lowered the receiver.
*
I skipped dinner and was in bed before nine, but had trouble sleeping. The next morning, I went through my final appointments by rote. I kept waiting for someone else to mention the knockoff. No one did. At noon, I packed, checked out, and grabbed a taxi for the airport.
The spaciousness of London cabs was something I always appreciated. I told myself to follow the British example of a stiff upper lip. I’d faced hiccups before. I wondered how close to Zapwired Tractenberg’s product really was, and how long it would take for things to play out.
Traffic ebbed and flowed. I was about to ask the driver if he could find another route when I did a double-take. The same black Volvo I’d recognized upon my arrival was just passing us on the right. I could no longer slough it off to coincidence. I was about to jot down the car’s license plate, when my cell phone rang.
“How’s London?” John Dalton asked.
12
I kept my eyes glued to the car. “Nice vehicle you have there, Dalton. Black matches your personality.”
“Beg your pardon? What’re you talking about?”
“Like—you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
I placed my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and asked the driver to follow the Volvo that was now picking up speed.
“All right, governor,” he said and stepped on it.
“Blair—”
I ignored Dalton’s voice, watching as the black car sped around a bend. We made the same turn maybe 10 seconds later and as if by magic, the car had disappeared.
“Sorry, gov,” the cab driver shrugged.
I turned my attention back to the phone. “Dalton—where are you?”
The sigh was pronounced. “My office in New York. What’s going on, Blair?”
If Dalton was in his office, then who was in the Volvo? “I’ll call you back,” I said, knowing I had no intention of doing so.
*
We pulled up to the terminal fifteen minutes later. I paid the driver and was just stepping to the curb when my cell rang again.
“You didn’t call back,” Dalton growled.
I cursed modern technology. My connection to New York—or wherever the heck the government agent happened to be—was crystal clear. “Dalton—now what?”
“I thought we understood each other, Mr. Anderson. The U.S. government needs your help. This is a matter of national security.”
“Still thinking.”
“I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer. You have two choices. Either book your flight yourself and give me the date, or tell me the date you’d prefer and I’ll book it for you. I’ll expect your answer this coming Monday.” He disconnected.
13
The makeshift mosque in Brooklyn was located in the basement of a 3000 sq. ft. private home. Yassin lowered his forehead to the carpet until it touched.
Thirty minutes later, with the prayer service over, he was back upstairs putting on his shoes when a boy aged eleven or twelve, huddling with the Imam, drew his attention.
“Mohammad?” Yassin muttered beneath his breath. The resemblance to his dead son was uncanny. How could one boy look so much like another? Or am I imagining it, he wondered. For the thousandth time?
*
Yassin had been born in Palestine a year after his parents’ marriage. His father had gone against custom by taking an outsider as his bride—a Christian from Norway, no less. She was a volunteer working for an obscure charity organization; one of dozens operating in Israel.
After Yassin’s birth, people began to observe the lighter color of his skin and his other Scandinavian features. As he grew older, he was teased and harassed endlessly.
His mother insisted he learn to speak English and he spoke it well. This became a further black mark against him. On the other hand, his siblings, a boy and a girl born two and four years later—were spared the same fate, having inherited their father’s physical appearance.
It took until his mid-teens for him to accept what Fate had bestowed upon him. By then, the embarrassment of his youth was tucked away and forgotten.
On his twentieth birthday, Yassin was introduced to a girl by a close friend of his. Madras was the most beautiful creature he’d ever set eyes upon. They began seeing each other, courting in public.
Sharia Law, which governed Muslim behavior, was not as restrictive as some believed when it came to what a couple should or shouldn’t do. However, it was common practice for both sets of parents to approve their relationship, and in this case, they did. Just shy of six months later, they were married.
When Madras became pregnant, panic set in. As someone who’d lived with juvenile diabetes, she’d been told about the risks of having a child. Yassin pleaded with her to have an abortion. She refused, even though their religion made it clear that abortion was allowed if keeping the child might put the mother’s life in jeopardy.
Their son, Mohammad, was born a month premature. Madras, as Yasin had feared, didn’t survive the birth.
Yassin became moody and quarrelsome. The only thing that kept him from slipping further into depression was his son. As the boy aged, he began to resemble Madras more and more—with a pear-shaped face, thick eyebrows, and sensuous lips.
The two were rarely apart. Yassin taught his son how to play chess as well as soccer. He was surprised to see that the boy was not only intelligent but quick and agile on the field.
By the time Mohammad had reached his eleventh birthday, the Imam began taking an interest in him. Yassin found it an honor that his son was being asked to go on weekend retreats with some of the other boys.
While Mohammad was away, Yassin would use the time to study the Koran, to reflect on his life and try to make better sense of it.
Normally, by the end of the weekend, he’d anticipate his son’s return … until one particular Sunday in March when a knock came on the door at 6:00 p.m., Mohammad’s usual arrival time home.
However, instead of the Imam and his son, it was only the Imam standing there, pale, with a haunted expression on his face.
Yassin’s breath caught in his throat. “Mohammad?”
“May I come in?” the Imam asked.
Yassin excused his rudeness, invited the man inside, and closed the door.
The Imam lowered his head slightly. “I am deeply saddened to have to tell you that it appears a missile struck the house where the seven students were staying.” He removed a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “They’re gone, Khalid. Your Mohammad among them.”
Yassin reared back in shock.
The Imam guided him to the couch in the living room and helped him sit. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Your son was one of the brightest boys it was my privilege to teach, eager to learn as much as he could about his heritage.”
He paused when Yassin began to sob uncontrollably. He put an arm around Yassin’s shoulder to assuage his grief as much as possible.
A couple of minutes later, the Imam continued, “Yesterday at noon I had an errand to run. I left lunch for the boys and was gone less than an hour. Upon my return, the house we’d been using for our retreats was gone, reduced to rubble, almost as if it had vanished. I could not believe what I was seeing. I left my car in the middle of the road and was charging toward the site when I was stopped by a policeman. I … I tried to fight him off. I was screaming by this time, repeating the names of the boys under my care. He wrapped his arms around me, then wrestled me to the ground.”
Yassin’s head threatened to burst. “H-How could this happen?” he managed to ask.
The Imam shook his head. “I don’t know. I tried, but couldn’t get the truth. A forensic team was sifting through the debris. This went on for hours, until it grew dark. The local Imam put me up for the night, then drove me back to the site this morning. Cadaver dogs were added to the search and almost all body parts that remained had been recovered and taken to the morgue.
“I came home a short time ago and have been going from house to house to explain to the parents what happened to their children.”
Yassin had no memory of the Imam leaving. In his mind’s eye, he continued visualizing Mohammad’s body disintegrating into thin air.
He dragged himself into the bathroom, where he was violently sick. Afterwards, he washed his face with cold water and went to bed. But his sense of loss was so profound, sleep was out of the question.
At daybreak he was on his way to the area where the destroyed house had once stood. Tears involuntarily came to his eyes. He whispered his son’s name beneath his breath. He knew he shouldn’t linger but did so anyway, only leaving when a few of the forensic personnel still on the scene began eyeing him curiously.
He drove to the stationhouse. The policeman at the front desk immediately came to attention when he heard why he was there, and minutes later Yassin was seated in the sergeant’s office.
He refused the offer of coffee. “I just need to know what happened,” Yassin said. “Please. Who did this?”
The man was in his early thirties, broad-shouldered, with a deep, gravel voice.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Yassin.” He struggled with a decision, then finally said, “We’ve determined it was the Americans. Their missile was to have targeted the house next door to the one where your son was staying. It was rumored to be a safe house for terrorists, which wasn’t true. Its most recent occupants were a schoolteacher and his family of four. But it has remained unoccupied for over a month.”
He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “This is a press release issued by the Americans this morning. I’m not supposed to show this to any civilians, so please keep it to yourself.”
Yassin took it in hand. The more he read the greater his hate for the perpetrators became. Instead of admitting their mistake, the Americans gloated about the mission being a strategic success, having eliminated known terrorists. They even called it, “A victory for democracy and the American way.”
Yassin handed it back, then stood and left without saying another word.
His heart screamed for revenge. For the next few weeks, he did nothing but mope around the house. He didn’t know many Americans, though he lumped them all in with the devil and he sought a retribution that would never be forgotten.
Finally, he paid a visit to the Imam. The men had bonded many years before, part of a group with secret forays into Tel Aviv, intent on creating havoc.
Yassin made it clear that it was impossible to sit still and do nothing.
The Imam heard him out, then said the timing couldn’t have been better. He confessed to being involved in a side of Islam of which few who knew him were aware. “It’s a well-financed group,” he explained, “with millions of dollars at our disposal. We currently have a secret operation planned for North America. But the man I’d assigned to take the lead, Nassar Camir, has left too many doubts in my mind about his capability. How would you feel about replacing him? I need someone with a cool, methodical head. Someone who will act rationally at all times. Are you up to it?”
Yassin didn’t hesitate. “It will be my honor.”
They discussed the operation in more detail, then shook hands. The minute the Imam left, Yassin relaxed for the first time in days. This opportunity he was being offered was too good to be true. He swore to Allah that he would devote the rest of his life to making as many Americans as possible suffer a thousand-fold for the death of his son and the other boys.
