Page 6 of Tamed Enemy
I name a figure that leaves him spluttering. “That’s absurd,” he finally says.
“I’m sorry to hear that you think so.” I’m careful not to sound the least bit sorry. “I’ll thank Hans Wagner for the recommendation and tell him this didn’t work out.”
“Wait!” Rochester barks before I can end the call. And then he whines, “I don’t even know how this happened.”
“It happened because you had a hole in your security. And that hole was exploited when you failed to implement appropriate procedures for employee termination. I can deliver a rock-solid solution in record time for the first part of that equation. But my work won’t mean a thing if you don’t have human resource procedures in place to manage the next unhappy employee you let go.”
He’s silent for nearly a minute, but then he says, “Record time?”
“Record time.”
“Which means what exactly?”
“I can’t know until I look behind your firewall. But I can assure you Cayman Rochester will be my number one priority until this matter is resolved.”
He wastes another minute, but he finally asks for my account number to deliver my retainer. I get the name of his in-house IT manager and settle down to work.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m turned into a liar by another phone call.
“Wolf,” I answer.
“Françoise Blanchard,” responds a cool, professional voice. Blanchard is the chief administrator of the largest hospital in Quebec. She wastes no time adding, “We are being held captive by a ransomware attack.”
“What systems do they have?”
“Everything. I have surgeons in the middle of procedures, and they can’t access robo-knives.”
Swearing under my breath, I send the Rochester data to an auxiliary monitor and pull up the information I stored the last time Blanchard called. I throw the display to one of the large screens on the far wall of my office and start to work through options.
Another call comes in before I’ve found a thread I can pull. “Just a moment, Françoise,” I say. “Can I put you on hold?”
“Call me when you have a way out of thismerde.”
I agree, then snag the new call before it disappears. “Wolf.” I don’t look away from the hospital’s information.
“Cole, I don’t want to be difficult.”
I recognize the voice, three words in. Fiona Moran is captain of the Irish mob up in Boston, another one of my colleagues in the Diamond Ring. Generally, I enjoy talking with her—she’s smart, she’s creative, and she’s determined that no man will ever get the better of her. I’ve even helped her out when she couldn’t pay for my services, taking her marker for a future favor, a debt I’ve yet to redeem.
But Fiona has also been a major pain in my ass, ever since Lone Wolf took over computer support for her illegal empire. So far, I’ve put my three best people on Fiona’s account, but she’s been dissatisfied with each of them. Worse, she’s been justified in every one of her complaints.
“You aren’t difficult,” I lie. “But I’m in the middle of an emergency for another client. Can I call you back?”
“By close of business,” Fiona says, with the absolute certainty of a woman who has killed to make her point.
“Close of business,” I promise.
I’m half an hour deeper in the Quebec fiasco when my phone rings again. It’s an unknown number from a 667 area code. I have no idea where that is, so I let the call roll to voicemail.
One minute later, the same number calls back.
I don’t like being handled, and I don’t have time to field another crisis. I let it roll over again.
Fifteen seconds this time, and the number reappears.
Still intent on the Quebec data, I punch the button to put the caller on speaker. “Wolf,” I snarl.
“You are a hard man to reach.” It’s Nikolai Tarasov. His voice is like kerosene poured over gravel.
