Zapwired, p.7
Zapwired, page 7
He smiled at her not-so-subtle hint, which she returned, one eyebrow ever-so-slightly elevated. “And the price?” he asked, double entendre intended.
She guided him back to the kitchen, where she picked up one of the sales brochures and handed it to him. “$12,000 a month, fully furnished. You like?”
Yassin wasn’t sure if she meant the house or her. “Yes … there’s a certain appeal,” he said with his own nuance. “But I have one more property I’m scheduled to look at.”
She placed her business card in his hand, allowed her fingers to linger on his. “Call me,” she said in a way that had nothing to do with the house.
His slight nod was purposely ambiguous. He headed for the front door, sensing her tracing his every step. He opened the door and turned, immediately catching the desire in her eyes.
He offered a goodbye wave, then shut the door behind him and headed for his car with a lilt in his step. He held up her card and regarded it for a moment. Then Yassin spit on it, tore it in half, and tossed it in the gutter.
*
On the drive to the last property on his list for today, he once again confirmed he wasn’t being followed. He arrived at a street in Lower Manhattan, checked the address he’d written on a scrap piece of paper just to be sure, then drove into the driveway and shut the motor.
Another car—an Acura—was parked in front of him. A short man with an aquiline nose and large brown-rimmed glasses laboriously climbed out and walked toward him with a pronounced limp. Yassin observed that his left shoe had a four-inch sole.
“Mr. Carson, I presume?”
“That’s me.”
“Stanley Vineberg.” No offer to shake hands. “You’re late.”
Yassin seethed but held off commentating. Inside the house, on his tour, he was pleased to see that the furnishings were sparse, the colors drab, with little chance of distraction.
More important, there were six bedrooms, which suited his purpose, and the walls were sufficiently solid to deflect noise from reaching anyone outside.
They descended to the basement. The space here was divided into four more individual rooms.
Yassin knew he’d found exactly what he wanted. But he wasn’t about to admit it. “How much?” he asked Vineberg once they returned to the main floor.
“As I mentioned on the phone, the owner doesn’t want to be bothered with modifications. You take it the way it is. Minimum twelve-month lease. Ten thousand a month.”
Yassin knew his budget could easily cover it, but it was the principle more than the asking price. “Seven a month is all I’m willing to pay,” he said. “After all, the furnishings are sparse, the paint is rather dull, and spatially it’s not precisely what I was looking for … but it will do.” He glowered inwardly at his charade.
“Nine-five?”
“Seven-five.”
“Nine. I don’t believe the owner will go lower than that.”
“Eight is my final offer.”
Vineberg rocked on his feet in contemplation. “I’ll have to check with the owner and get back to you, Mr. Carson.”
“You do that,” Yassin said, already headed for the door, “and make it soon.”
It was not until he was in his car that he allowed himself a self-satisfied grin. The price was irrelevant. He would accept whatever counter-offer the sales agent came back with. And then he’d be a step closer to exacting his revenge.
22
“Sandra?” I called.
My hearing was gone.
I repeated her name, believing it was she in the restaurant and not a stranger.
I tried to move; it was hopeless. Time became scrambled. Rational thought turned fuzzy. Then a needle pricked my arm...
I tumbled backwards, praying for a safety net, falling through inner space.
*
“Blair?”
I concentrated with everything I had, struggled to undo my glued eyelids, until they finally came apart. Light flooded in and my eyes began to water. I felt the heaviness of the lids but was determined to keep them open.
“Welcome back, buddy.”
I turned toward the voice. A Jeremy Samson impersonator was leaning over my bed.
“The restaurant—” I sat up and was overpowered by vertigo.
I was helped back down, closed my eyes and began to drift.
“Blair?”
Is this real or a dream? “Where am I?” I finally asked.
“Beit Cholim Shel Tikva,” the man pronounced the name like a native. “One of the best hospitals in Israel.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
“Not far from your hotel, in central Tel Aviv.”
“H-How did I get here?”
“Don’t you remember what happened?”
Sound stilled. I was gone again.
*
My room was brighter.
I tried to move onto my side. A fierce pain in my back took my breath away. I lay still until it subsided. Then I went to scratch my scalp and touched a bandage instead.
My chest began to throb. I clenched my teeth and waited. My back, my head, my chest. Anything else?
I did a self-examination: From my neck to each arm, my stomach to each leg, one at a time. All were intact. I thanked God for small mercies.
*
Later the same morning, I opened my eyes and Jeremy was there—the real one this time.
“Sorry for not meeting you at the airport,” he said. “There was a fire in one of the factories I work with.”
Fire? If the factory happened to be SDC, my problem would be solved. “Which factory?” I asked.
“Tel Aviv Electronics.”
I had to hide my disappointment.
“It was quite a blaze. Luckily, no one was hurt. The police think it was arson.”
“Terrorist related?”
“Could be. Anyway, I was being interviewed by the police and had no way of getting word to you. By the time I got through it was too late to meet you at the airport or your hotel. I came right to the restaurant—arrived just after the bomb exploded.”
“Bomb?”
“You mean, you don’t remember?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Well—you’re a hero, my friend.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Don’t look so surprised.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I went through it mentally: Going to the Italian restaurant, ordering a bottle of wine… My god, the girl! “How is she?” I asked, holding my breath.
“If you mean the little kid you saved, she’s fine.”
It was coming back. “And the others?”
Hesitation creased Jeremy’s brow. “Six altogether.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. And eight seriously injured. But most of the kitchen staff, you and the girl, got out okay. I don’t know how you had the quickness of mind. You’re more athletic than I would’ve given you credit for.”
“Yeah—I’m a real athlete.”
“Hey, don’t disparage yourself. You still work out at the gym a few times a week, don’t you? It paid off.”
All those people, I was thinking. The girl’s playmates, her parents and their friends. The elderly couple that had come in last. All hurt or dead. “What about the owner. That lady—I forget her name…”
“Moira Feldman? She survived as well. She’s the one who spoke to the press about you. She saw what you did. Reporters are clamoring for a chance to interview you.”
“Did she give them my name?”
“Uh-uh. She didn’t know your name.”
“Good, keep it that way.”
“Why do you say that? Don’t you want to be famous?”
“Seriously, Jeremy. I don’t want you saying a word.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. If you value our friendship.”
23
I was grilled by Israeli officials for hours. They opened an iPad and had me look at photographs of a list of potential suspects. The man wasn’t among them.
I insisted on being released from the hospital the following morning. If the truth were known, my headaches hadn’t quite subsided to the degree I’d let on. But my purpose for coming to Israel was weighing on my mind and I wanted to get it over with.
Jeremy arrived dressed in an open-necked white sport shirt and matching Bermuda shorts, his bare feet adorned in brown leather sandals. I was taken once more by the man’s youthful appearance; his red hair and freckles reminding me of a grownup Dennis the Menace.
I was winded from the simple exertion of putting on my clothes. I took a seat on the edge of the bed and asked my friend why I was targeted.
“I doubt it was meant for you,” Jeremy said. “Unless you have enemies I don’t know about?” His expression changed. “You sure you want to leave the hospital? That wasn’t a love-tap to your head, you know. An inch or two right or left and you’d have been a goner.”
“Yeah. Thanks for reminding me. But I feel fine.” I paused. “What’s the word on the Zapwired knockoff?”
“Alleged knockoff. The company who offered it is run by an ex-employee of Hillel Electronics. The schmuck stole their secrets and thought he could get away with it. They’re suing his ass. The bloody thing will be off the market before you know it. End of problem.”
I wished I could feel relief.
Jeremy was quiet for a moment, then said, “Stand up.”
“Huh?”
“Stand up.”
When I stood, he placed his hands on my shoulders, guided me into the bathroom, and positioned me in front of the cabinet mirror.
Both my eyes were swollen and bruised. A partially healed cut crisscrossed my cheek. A dab of coagulated blood was noticeable in my hair. I turned to Jeremy. “No big deal,” I lied. “I’ve seen worse.”
24
Once in the car, I immediately fell asleep. When Jeremy shook me awake outside his office, it took a moment to get my bearings. This area of Ashod, in the central-eastern portion of Israel, catered to small and mid-size businesses. Despite coming here many times before, everything looked only vaguely familiar.
Jeremy opened my door and I stepped out. The strong sun didn’t help my weakened condition. “Just give me a second,” I said. I bent over from the waist, attempted to clear the cobwebs, then straightened and slowly moved forward.
A small entranceway led to the showroom, beyond which sat the warehouse. On my right was the stairwell leading to the offices on the upper floor.
We climbed to the top and sat down in Jeremy’s cramped quarters. Files were strewn across his desk and piled on the floor. I could feel the sweat drenching my clothes. The air-conditioning didn’t have the same functionality as back home. While cooler than the outside temperature, it was still far from comfortable.
“So,” Jeremy said, “what’s got you so worried you couldn’t discuss it over the phone? What made you fly out here a month ahead of the date we’d scheduled?”
I avoided his gaze. “I’m concerned about Zapwired. I’ve invested every penny to my name. You said the product was proprietary and I believed you. But if this isn’t the case, I need to know now. I can’t be left dangling, Jeremy. Not if someone’s copied the thing and will be bringing it out at a lower price.”
“As I told you,” Jeremy said with an atypical serious expression. “This knockoff will be shut down.”
“When?”
“Do you want me to lie? I don’t know exactly when. But Hillel has a patent. It’s just a matter of time until this thing goes away. For good.”
I started to feel dizzy. I shook my head to clear it, then got down to the main purpose of my trip. “I’m also worried about the company Hillel uses to manufacture Zapwired.”
“What about them?”
“SDC has an exclusive.”
“That’s correct. Hillel Electronics has been working with them for years.”
“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean SDC is the best.”
A frown crossed Jeremy’s brow. “What are you getting at?”
I coughed, hoping to hide my embarrassment at lying to my partner. “I’ve been told Starlight Industries is far better than SDC.”
“SI?” Jeremy practically leapt out of his chair.
I lowered my eyes.
“Do you even know who SI is?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know?” Jeremy’s voice rose a full octave. “Tell me, please. I’m curious.”
“My bank told me about them. Said they were a better company. Apparently, an investigation into SDC turned up questionable business practices—alleged fraud or insider trading involving one of their top executives.”
My words didn’t ring true, even to me. To change the subject, I asked if I could have some water.
Jeremy stepped up to the small fridge in the corner of his office. He removed a bottle, walked over and handed it to me. Back at his desk, he took a seat and reached for his phone. After one short and one longer call, both in Hebrew, he indicated for me to get up and accompany him.
*
The offices and manufacturing plant for SDC were housed in a 100,000 sq. ft. facility, which was large by Israeli standards. The management team Jeremy introduced me to—from a Mr. Rosen, to a Goldberg, to a Lichtenstein—all seemed professional.
As we toured their premises, I realized one needn’t be highly observant to conclude that the company was above average when it came to modern workstations and state-of-the-art machinery.
Jeremy’s grin was almost offensive. “Seen enough?”
*
Another drive, shorter this time. Before we entered the building, Jeremy explained that he’d gotten this appointment by telling a white lie. “Starlight Industries is new and has been after me to use their manufacturing services. I mentioned on the phone that I might be ready to listen to their proposal, but I’d have to get my American partner on board. I told them you were in town today and we just wanted a quick tour. So don’t say anything different. Okay?”
I nodded.
SI was five times smaller than SDC. As the senior partner showed us around the premises, I could see the equipment was new but half of it was sitting idle. It was obvious they needed us much more than we needed them.
As we were leaving Jeremy whispered that there was no way this company could meet our production demands.
*
When we returned to his office, I played my final card, taking my friend back to the time we met, reminding him of how my first bank changed account managers on me and the guy nearly put me out of business, how it was the current bank that came to the rescue. “It all comes down to relationships,” I said. “I owe my bank the benefit of the doubt. They simply don’t want me dealing with SDC.”
Jeremy’s frown hinted of incredulity. “What’s gotten into you? SDC is reliable and well respected in the industry. SI is so new, I’m not sure we can trust them. Do you want to risk putting out an inferior product? Ever heard the term ‘recall’? That’s what we’d be looking at. And a wholesale recall of Zapwired will bankrupt us. With so much at stake, we should err on the side of caution. Switching to SI is out of the question. I’m sorry, boychick.”
25
My flight back to the States was uneventful. But when I arrived at Kennedy, it was pouring rain and cabs were scarce. It took almost an hour and forty-five minutes to reach Manhattan. I went to bed without bothering to unpack and slept for close to twelve hours. I awoke feeling sluggish.
I took a taxi to my office and my secretary immediately asked about the bruises on my face. I used a stock answer: “You should see the other guy.”
There were a few messages on my desk. One was from John Dalton, which I ignored. One was from Lisa inviting me to lunch. Another was from the toy buyer at Arrow that drew my interest. Up to a few weeks ago, our Vice-President of Sales was handling this account. But she’d taken a leave of absence, then chosen to make it permanent, and I decided to be her replacement.
I’d been trying to reach the buyer, Marianne Lattanzi, since the change took place. Her message was the first I returned.
“I can squeeze you in tomorrow,” Marianne said.
The last thing I wanted to do—fly to Minneapolis after just returning from Israel. But this was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. “Tomorrow? What time?”
“One o’clock. Sorry for the short notice, but that’s all I’ve got open for the next few weeks or so.”
“See you then,” I said.
Arrow was the last major retailer to be resolved. Despite a planned PR and advertising budget on Zapwired of $6 million, success was never guaranteed. Buyers gave us orders that were tentative commitments, for quantities that could change in a heartbeat.
“Sorry. We’re closing some stores,” was the typical excuse. It was a numbers game, and I couldn’t afford to lose one of the key retailers’ participation.
*
I next reached out to Lisa, who said she’d pick me up for lunch at 1:00; no ifs, ands, or buts.
Her vehicle surprised me. Instead of something compact and hot, she was driving a two-year-old, black Ford F-150, a truck better suited to someone with a high testosterone level.
“Nice bus,” I kidded as I settled into the front seat. “But does big have to mean ugly?”
She pretended to be insulted. “Aw—you don’t like my baby?”
“No, no. Are you kidding? I love it.”
She went to kiss me on the cheek; came up short. “My God!” She reached a hand to my face. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Zigged when I should have zagged?”
“Blair!”
“It’s nothing. I had a little accident.”
“Little? What’s going on?”
“I told you.”
“Yeah. You had an accident!”
*
She picked a place on Third Avenue. We no sooner finished our burgers when Lisa demanded to know where I’d been, and who beat me up.
“I didn’t get beaten up,” I said. “I had a small problem … in Israel.”
