Fatal Greed by Robert Landori

Author:Robert Landori [Landori, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-934572-90-0
Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
Published: 2005-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

They started calling Syd Bojarsky “Digger” when he was four years old because he kept digging for everything everywhere: for his toys in the pile on the nursery floor (he had three male siblings), in the laundry room for parts of his hockey equipment, in the garden for buried treasure when he was ten, for information he needed for his studies at high school …. All the way, all the time, until he finally got the job of his dreams: a position with the CIA.

Even there, he kept digging, thank God.

Digger Bojarsky, a tenacious scrapper, was small, built like a fire hydrant, strong as an ox, fit as a fiddle and the son of a Polish congressman from Sandusky, Ohio—attributes he thought would help him get a job at the spy agency. But it was, in fact, his ability and tenacity as a digger that clinched him his appointment.

And his exceptional memory.

Bojarsky leaned back in his comfortably upholstered armchair, took a puff of his cigar, scratched the side of his butt and surveyed his little kingdom.

Although smoking in the joint was strictly verboten he and his little crew of nine—eight computer whizzes and a very attractive and efficient secretary-administrator with fifteen years’ seniority and a heart of gold the size of a bus—enjoyed special dispensation from the rule because, for one, they operated in an area with no windows whatsoever, and, for another, they were all heavy smokers of many years’ standing who didn’t mind the smell.

Which was, actually, not bad at all because their office had an especially built, extremely efficient air conditioning and purification system that sucked out and replaced the air they were breathing every half-hour.

And kept the ambient temperature and humidity at a rock solid, comfortable level—not because of the humans in the place, but because of the array of computer terminals crammed into their shop.

Bojarsky was the head of the nameless department that looked after the safety and security of the participants in the CIA’s Employee Protection Program. And, although the department was very small, Bojarsky held GS Ten rank and was paid accordingly: over seventy thousand dollars a year, plus various special supplementary benefits that the “Upper Echelons” kept inventing annually to keep him happy.

Which he was—very. At a gross annual income in excess of one hundred and twenty thousand beans a year, a third of it tax-free, at the age of forty-five.

But he was worth every penny of it.

He was responsible—twenty-four/seven—for almost five hundred lives. Plus dependents.

He and his staff were just about ready to wrap up their weekly review and head for the door when Glynn Owen, the carrot-head, and most junior member of the team, piped up.

“Does the name ‘Lonsdale’ mean anything to anybody?”

Bojarsky snapped forward in his chair, the hackles rising on the back of his neck.

“Why?” he said.

Suddenly, his mouth felt very dry.

Taken aback by his boss’s ferocity of expression, Owen hesitated before answering.

“Come on, out with it!”

“It’s probably nothing anyway.” Owen shrugged. “It’s just that I had never seen the name before and now I have five hits this week alone.

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