Chapter 2: Tuesday, September 4, 2018: You flipped me off
Karen Strauss-Klein never rushes anywhere. A former model, she treats the office like one big runway. She is always strutting around like she doesn't have a care in the world.
Yet here she is, practically running. That would be hard to do in her six-inch stilettos but she is making the best of it. Weird, I think to myself. It's only 8.30 am. Karen rarely comes in before 10 and leaves promptly at one, never to return until the next day.
"Get me the nerd and the bean counter," she barks as she marches past my desk.
Bethany rushes out to get her coffee and I ring up David Greenberg and Mary Anne White. The CTO and CFO of Strauss Industries respectively. Karen calls Greenberg the nerd-in-chief. White is derisively referred to as Lord of the bean counters, a title that strikes right in the middle of my little accounting heart.
And the proper title for a woman would be Lady but Karen has never struck me as the kind of boss who'd be open to criticism. She never calls them those names to their faces though. The place would collapse without them and she knows it. I wonder if any of them is the spy. Marjorie has been frustratingly uncommunicative.
White assures me that she's coming up immediately. Greenberg's assistant tells me he's gone to the factory in Texas City and won't be back until noon. He's unreachable in his cell. Karen is irate at this information.
"Go get him!" she yells. I turn wordlessly and leave. I pick up my phone, handbag, and keys on the way out. I run into Bethany at the elevator, Starbucks cup in hand. She still has that deer in the headlights look, two months into her time at Strauss.
"She is in a real bitchy mood today," I say as we pass each other. Her eyes get impossibly wide and her steps slow down. She turns and tries to say something but the elevator doors are already closing. I can't make it out. I don't know why I enjoy torturing poor Bethany. She's a sweet girl and we could have been the best of friends under different circumstances.
On the way down I realize I'm angry at Karen. She just ruined my morning. The drive to Texas City and back would take two whole hours assuming there was little traffic. What the hell is wrong with her this morning? She barely listens while the man is talking and now she wants me driving 40 miles to fetch him?
The ding of the elevator interrupts my train of thought. I'm in the basement. I walk out, find my Camry, and drive out. Out of habit, I check the chalkboard outside Ziggy's Deli. The day's specials are grilled pork ribs and slow-roasted leg of lamb served with ragu alla Bolognese, whatever that is. The specials are written in white chalk. My temper flares.
Seven months undercover. Seven months in which I've been reading the specials every weekday and they're always written in white chalk. I'm tempted to go in and order a tuna sandwich but I hesitate. There's no need to bother Marjorie. She'll update me when there's something to tell. And I don't have anything to report anyway besides the fact that I'm bored.
I don't like Strauss Industries but I prefer it to Raskin & Welch. At Raskin & Welch, I read balance sheets, tax returns, incorporation records, asset statements, and bank statements all day.
My job at Strauss Industries is more varied. I've given factory and office tours, attended galas, screened interview questions, organized staff retreats, sat in at high-level managerial meetings, drafted and reviewed bids for various contracts, and even fired a few lawyers on Karen's behalf. And she gave me a 10% raise last month.
I still have to read and summarize financial accounts for Karen but I no longer have to fetch her coffee or her drycleaning now that Bethany is here. Some moron in a blue BMW honks at me from behind and startles me. Traffic has already started moving and I'm holding everyone up but I flip him off anyway. What's he gonna do? Beat up a woman in the middle of Houston?
I check my rearview mirrors as I navigate downtown Houston. Tradecraft Elizabeth. Don't forget it, I remind myself. I have gotten sloppy. Marjorie told me to be careless, but a spy needs to be cautious nonetheless. It would be a shame if I got too rusty. My vigilance pays off. The guy I flipped off seems to be following me.
I memorize his plates and turn a few corners just to be certain and he stays on my tail. I pull up outside a Domino's, retrieve my Beretta from the glove compartment, undo the safety, put it in my handbag, and wait with my finger just off the trigger.
That's not at all necessary. No assassin is going to kill me in the middle of a crowded street after trailing me for two blocks. It's just too sloppy. But I like feeling dangerous. It gives me confidence.
He pulls up next to me and steps out of his car. He doesn't look around. That's a good sign. He's a civilian. He's of medium height and build but a sharp dresser with slicked back blonde hair, a clean-shaven chin, and a nicely tailored dark blue suit. The knot on his necktie is too thick but he still pulls it off. I check his hands anyway. They're hanging by his sides, completely empty but for his keyfob.
He locks his car, crosses the two steps to my Camry, and raps twice on my driver's side window. I press the button to roll down the window with my left hand while my right hand remains inside my handbag. I don't know why I'm still doing that. Perhaps deep down, part of me is itching for an excuse to shoot somebody.
"Are you ok Ma'am?" he starts.
I just stare back defiantly, trying to dominate the conversion with my body language. I remember the words of my instructor at Camp Peary, "A stare down is a negotiation. Don't give an inch, don't speak first, and if the other guy starts talking don't say one more word than you have to."
He gives up, breaks eye contact, and stumbles over his next words, "I… I'm Stewart Hill. You flipped me off earlier near the Delphi Tower. I just wanted to check if there was a problem." He throws his hands up as he says this. He thinks I'm crazy.
I turn the charm on and flash him my brightest smile. "There is no problem Stewart. I'm just having a rough morning. I'm sorry I took my anger out on you. It wasn't your fault." I slowly turn the safety of my gun back on and hold out my right hand for a handshake. He shakes my hand and smiles back.
"It's alright," his voice is very calming. "I understand. I'm a psychiatrist."
Little Stewart is feeling pretty pleased with himself. Time to move in for the kill. With an even tone, I add, "I just don't appreciate strangers following me around. It's creepy Stewart. "
He jerks back as if stung and stumbles over a string of apologies. I let him finish. Thoroughly pleased at how I have just turned the tables, I decide to be magnanimous in victory, "It's alright Stewart. You didn't know. Just don't do it again."
"I won't. Trust me, Ma'am. I won't do it again," Stewart declares effusively. I just smile encouragingly and nod slowly. "Thank you, Ma'am. Thank you very much." With those final words, Stewart stumbles back to his car and drives off.
I sit there smiling in self-congratulation for another minute before rolling up my window and backing out of the Domino's parking lot. I'm surprised by how much I enjoyed the exchange. Psychopath much?
It takes me another 20 minutes to get onto Interstate 45. The traffic out of the city is moderately light so my morning might not be entirely shot after all. The flow is steady so I start thinking about my assignment just like I have done during every idle moment I've had in the past seven months. I can't write it down but I can speculate.
Could it be Karen Strauss-Klein? She's barely in the office. She likes long lunches, galas, and magazine spreads about women in business even though she spends more time posing for those magazine photos than she does actually running her business.
I can't exactly blame her. Karen's backstory is quite tragic. Her grandfather Otto Strauss had started the company in the early fifties. He was either a German refugee or a captured Wehrmacht officer who was freed after WWII. There are a lot of rumors about his past. I've been planning to ask Marjorie about the true story but it seems like a petty reason to initiate a meeting over.
Her mother was an only child and she took over after her father died in 1974. Gretchen Strauss-Klein ran Strauss Industries for 11 years before prematurely dying at 36 from ovarian cancer in 1985. Karen was 11 and her brother Rudy was 15.
Karen's father, Kenneth Klein, ran Strauss Industries for 20 years before retiring and handing over the reins to a then 35-year-old Rudy in 2005. Kenneth died of a heart attack in 2015 and Rudy crashed his WWI biplane into a New Mexico mountainside en route to his father's funeral. Karen lost her father and brother in the span of two days.
Rudy had no children so a grief-stricken Karen found herself the sole heir to Strauss Industries and mistress of its 800 employees. Uninterested in the minutiae of running a company, she appointed her husband Robert Riddick as CEO.
Barely a year later, Karen caught Bob hosting an orgy at their house after returning early from a vacation with their children due to a severe case of food poisoning. Bob had begged off the vacation because he had to work.
Karen fired him, filed for divorce, and took over the running of Strauss Industries but it was a company on its knees. Bob had been systematically embezzling funds from company reserves.
He also managed to lose key clients and there were half a dozen lawsuits from workers at two Strauss factories because Kenneth had diverted money meant for safety upgrades to an offshore casino. Two people had been permanently disabled.
The company was barely breaking even. By the time Karen realized just how much shit she was wading in, Bob had hightailed it to the Dutch Antilles. His trail went cold there.
Bob had mortgaged nearly everything the company owned and there was no trace of the money. Every cent the company earned went towards servicing this debt. Karen had managed to keep everything out of the tabloids but all this was in the dossier Marjorie gave me. I've also seen company accounts. While nominally solvent, Strauss Industries is two bad quarters away from going belly up.
Since Strauss is a privately held company, its accounts don't need to be made public. This has allowed Karen to keep up the image of a successful businesswoman. But it has also left her without an exit strategy. She owns all the stock in the company. She has been shopping the company around but no one seems to be biting. I have been giving factory and office tours every other week since I arrived.
Karen likes to refer to Strauss industries as a defense contractor in her interviews. It makes people think we make missiles when in reality Strauss is a windowmaker for Lockheed and Northrop. These are about the only large contracts that Bob failed to lose.
Strauss Industries is in the glass and plastics business. Canopies for fighter jets, aircraft windows, bulletproof glass for armored vehicles, plastic packaging, plastic casings, and heat-strengthened glass for construction.
My first thought was that Karen or someone close to her was selling secrets about the glass components they sold to defense contractors but the weaknesses of planes and their components are well known. Marjorie also said the spy was male.
I wonder why China would even bother planting a spy inside the company. Strauss only makes the canopies of the fighter jets; not the engines, fuselages, or stealth technology. The rest of the company's product line is targeted at private citizens.
I wonder if maybe Bob funneled money to terrorists, but from reports, he is the type to funnel it to strippers and casinos. Besides, he's long gone. The spy Marjorie is hunting is still around.
Try as I might, I don't see anything Strauss industries does that would be so interesting to the Chinese. Strauss Industries is a boring glass company with a mountain of debt whose owner has been trying and failing to sell it for the past year and a half.
The number of fighter jet canopies ordered might give a sense of American aircraft numbers but the Pentagon doesn't exactly keep that information a secret. All you have to do is watch C-SPAN or google that information. There has to be something else going on here.
My train of thought is interrupted as I pull into the Texas City factory parking lot. This is where it all began. Otto's first factory. The security guard checks my ID and waves me in. I see David Greenberg's Cadillac on the far end and park next to it. Just then, my phone rings. It's Karen.
She's never been one for pleasantries, "Where are you?"
"I've just pulled into the factory."
"You found him?"
"I've spotted his car. I'm about to head into the plant."
"Hurry."
I get coveralls, safety boots, a hard hat, and a gas mask from the control room. Sam and Sam tell me Greenberg is on the factory floor. The factory is buzzing with activity. Workers mostly operate machines from behind glass enclosures. I keep scanning and it doesn't take me long to spot Greenberg's lanky frame. He's huddled over one of the machines surrounded by a bunch of technicians.
They all pause when they see me approaching. I inform Greenberg of my mission.
"Did she tell you why?" He sounds irritated but making out his expressions is impossible with the gas mask.
"No. But she was very insistent. It must be important."
"Give me another half hour."
"Alright, " I reply and leave. I feel very self-conscious as I walk away: acutely aware of all the eyes on me. I sigh with relief once I get back to the control room. I change out of the coveralls and into my own clothes again. It also feels very liberating to get the gas mask off my face.
I spend about 20 minutes chit-chatting with Sam and Sam, the two control room supervisors before Greenberg shows up. I've gotten quite chummy with Sam and Sam over my numerous factory visits.
They're my favorite people in the whole company. They like to tag team their witticisms which I suppose is easier to do when you have been best friends since middle school. Could one of them be a spy? No, I refuse to consider that possibility.
I'm a little jealous of them. I've never had a best friend. There was Scooter but you can't have a two-way conversation with a dog. We moved around a lot when I was a kid and then I made the fateful decision to become a spy as an adult so I can't even own a dog now. No attachments.
Greenberg informs me he's ready to leave after exactly half an hour, interrupting my quality time with Sam and Sam. Once we're out of the factory, he launches into one of his long-winded tirades, "What's so important that Karen would summon me out of the blue? Has she suddenly developed a love for the business? I was running a very important test. Now I'll have to start all over again tomorrow. Polycarbonate..." I tune off after that and just nod as we walk along.
I have to steer him towards his car otherwise he'd just walk straight into the nearest obstacle. David Greenberg is the longest-serving employee at Strauss Industries. Old Otto Strauss hired him straight out of college and he has been with the company ever since. He retired briefly seven years ago but came back to work after his wife died. He's well into his seventies and shows no signs of slowing down.
Despite a mild case of social ineptitude, Greenberg is as sharp as a tack with over 100 patents to his name. He's only an inch taller than I am but his skinny frame makes him appear a lot taller.
With his unruly white hair, horn-rimmed glasses, awkward gait, and white lab coat flapping in the wind, he looks very much the part of a mad scientist. I like him quite a lot. He reminds me of my dearly departed grandpa. He just tends to go into way too much detail about his work and all those chemistry terms go right over my head. The company's young chemists never seem to mind. They hang onto his every word. He's the closest thing they have to a rockstar.
I get Greenberg to his car, he thanks me, gets in, and nearly runs over my foot while backing out. The man is not the most careful of drivers. He carries a radar detector in his car and believes speed limits are just one more item in a long list of things that he considers to be government overreach. That list also includes drivers' licenses. I tried arguing with him about that and lost.
I get into my Camry and drive at a more sedate pace. As I often do whenever my mind is idle, I slide into planning/fantasy mode. I try to visualize my future life. A different career maybe? I have a minor in Art History and I paint myself.
I could be an art dealer. Maybe I'd own a gallery or two. I know I'll need money for that. Grandpa left me a modest inheritance and I've been saving quite a bit now that I get paid by both Strauss Industries and the agency but I don't know if it would be enough.
I also want my very own fancy restaurant. Preferably with rude waiters who speak fluent French. Reservations would be so prized that people would have to sign up for a waitlist. I'd go through the waitlist and only bestow my favor upon deserving diners. Like a goddess. I know I'm probably insane but a girl can dream.
I can still do some work for the agency but as an independent contractor rather than an employee. That way I would pick and choose the more interesting assignments instead of the duds I've been stuck with.
I want a family. A husband. Two children. A house with a large yard where the kids can run around. I can almost picture them: little William and Charlotte. But we'd call William Will, like grandpa, not Bill. My husband would be tall, handsome, and loving. He would never leave us. Not like father.
That startles me. I rarely think about my father. I keep him locked up in a secluded corner of my mind that I never visit. But I'm back in downtown Houston already. Having to navigate the chaotic traffic takes my mind off my father. You can't dredge up painful memories while trying not to hit careless pedestrians and cars that brake randomly.
As I approach Delphi, I check out the board outside Ziggy's again. The lunch specials are the same but they are now written in light green chalk. Colored chalk. Finally.
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