Free Off Kilter by Glen Robins Page A

is. He hasn’t been seen in half a year. Not until five days ago, that is,” said Alastair, ignoring Nic’s skepticism.
    “Right. I’ll drop everything to find this chap who’s lost his way. It’s got all the elements of a monumental international crisis.” Nic’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
    “Look here, chum. The FBI called from Los Angeles and asked for our cooperation. Top priority it is. They think he might lead us to some bigger fish.”
    “Oh, really? Like how big a fish?”
    “Real big. The kind of big fish that could launch one’s career if he plays his cards right.”
    “Now we’re talking. Who is this guy that can lead to the big fish, and what do we know about him?”
    “His name is Collin Cook. We know that he disappeared from his home in Northern California back in November after his family was killed in a traffic wreck. Horrible thing, really. Must’ve turned him to the dark side. Regardless, two days before the RBS thing, he’s photographed with the top man from this Asian crime ring that we have been trying to get our arms around. These photos surfaced Tuesday,” Alastair said as he turned his computer monitor toward Nic and clicked his mouse. “They were taken at a pub in Kings Cross on Monday. This guy is Pho Nam Penh, the big fish I mentioned. An evil bloke bent on destroying Western lifestyle. Been branded a terrorist, but hasn’t been seen much. Keeps a very low profile . . .”
    “Wait a minute,” said Nic, wagging a finger at the image on the screen. “That’s the bloke connected to all those penny-skimming scams months ago, isn’t it? He skimmed from dozens of European banks for months until we shut it down. Apparently he’s stepped it up, eh?”
    Alastair’s eyebrows lifted and his head nodded. “You know about this guy, do you?”
    “A bit, yeah. But I’m sure there’s more I don’t know,” said Nic.
    “Well, then you might also know that our investment banks have suffered the wrath of his attacks, as have others in Germany, France, Australia, and, of course, the United States. He’s slick, real slick. He’s made us look like fools for months now.”
    “You want me to go after Pho Nam Penh and break up his operation?” asked Nic, rubbing his hands together. “Sounds quite high profile. I like it.”
    “I know you’re ambitious, Nic. But for now, just find the American. Follow him, try to figure out the connection, if there is one, and let him lead us to Penh. Shouldn’t be that difficult really. This guy was nothing but a salesman a year ago.”
    Nic stroked his chin, a look of warm satisfaction spreading across his boyish face. The lights were on and the wheels were turning. His lucky break. As he stood, he looked again at the photo on the screen and said, “I’m on it.”
     
    *              *              *              *
     
    Nic strode purposefully down the hallway back to his cubicle, chin up and chest out. Nic wasn’t big on exercise and didn’t see the sun often. As a child, he had been rather sickly. The result was an unimpressive physique that was pasty white and thin as a tent pole. The thinning hair didn’t help, either. What he lacked physically, he made up for in effort and cunning. He wiggled and stretched his fingers as he sat in front of his computer. “Here we go. Collin Cook, you’re mine now,” he said out loud. Alastair’s warning that there was no evidence against Cook went unheeded.
    The clicking of his mouse and keyboard continued nearly unabated until late afternoon, searching and reading and learning all he could about Collin Cook, Pho Nam Penh, and the Komodo syndicate. The news stories about the cyber attacks were vicious in their treatment of Interpol and Scotland Yard, calling them “an incompetent lot” and “asleep at the controls.” Their reports decried it a disgrace that the culprits were still at large after bringing one of Europe’s preeminent financial institutions to