A Billion Ways to Die (20 page)

“Gyawali hired you,” said Imogene. “That’s all Ansell needs to know. By definition, that makes you an enemy.”

“Ansell was acting director of the department when they brought Rajendra in over him,” said Manfred. “You can figure it out from there.”

“I can’t believe Martin hasn’t had a single bite of pizza and we’re already hanging out all our dirty laundry.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m used to that stuff. Gyawali should get points for having such an open environment. Tolerant guy.”

“Unless you’re crazy enough to use PowerPoint.”

They both smiled broadly.

“How so?” I asked.

“PowerPoint is forbidden.”

“Really? I didn’t know.”

“Flip charts only. Not filled out ahead of time. Black markers, chisel point. Handouts eight and a half by eleven, twelve point type max for headings, eight point in the body of the text.”

“He didn’t tell me any of that,” I said, talking around a slippery wad of pepperoni-soaked dough.

“It was supposed to be preliminary,” Imogene said to Manfred. “He hadn’t given you the presentation specs.”

“Sometimes it pays to be ignorant,” I said.

“That’s yet to be decided,” said Manfred.

“You’ve inspired me to add Kurt Cobain lyrics to my weekly summaries,” Imogene said.

“But you like Gyawali,” I said.

“He’s brilliant,” said Manfred.

“And repressed,” said Imogene.

Manfred seemed distracted for a moment by an itch under his thick blond hair. Imogene leaned back as he scratched as if to avoid flying debris.

“He was a muckety-muck in social anthropology at the University of Edinburgh,” said Manfred, with a shake of his head. “I don’t think he’s reconciled yet the higher pay with the diminished prestige.”

“He’s an honorable man,” said Imogene. “It isn’t easy being Nepali.”

“Is everyone here an anthropologist?” I asked, hoping to get off Gyawali as a subject.

Imogene chuckled. Though it sounded more like a clucking chicken.

“The worker bees are hardened geeks,” she said. “Computer science one and all. Data crunchers. The analysts are from all over hell,” she flicked her long finger at Manfred and herself. “I’m microbiology. We have an electrical engineer, a few chemists, a guy from an advertising agency, and I think at least one lion tamer. Ansell is a former undersecretary in the State Department. I don’t know what his degree is in. Probably satanic studies. Manfred’s a chess prodigy and professional fuckup, as far as I can determine.”

“Fucking up is a highly underrated career path,” he said, exaggerating his German accent.

“Why do you think they hired me?” I asked, I hoped innocently, though who could be innocent about a question like that. Imogene took the ball without hesitation.

“Some people are frustrated with Rajendra. Most of the people here are go-go, rule-the-world, wham bam thank you ma’am. He’s deliberate. Cautious. Meticulous.”

“Fucking academic,” said Manfred.

“Unlike Charles Andalusky,” I said.

The room chilled off a few degrees.

“So you met Chuck,” said Imogene.

I shook my head.

“No. Just tried to read up on him when I applied for the job.”

Imogene’s near white skin took on a faint pink flush.

“Chuck freaks her out,” said Manfred, enjoying her discomfort.

“Manfred likes to say that, but I have nothing against the man,” she said, moving a piece of pizza crust around on her paper plate.

“Without Chuck, none of us would be here,” said Manfred. “He’s the man with the money.”

“He protects our funding,” she said. “It’s very admirable. And he likes Rajendra, despite pressure from the C suite for greater productivity.”

“He likes you, too,” said Manfred, folding his arms and leaning close to her.

She snapped off a piece of crust and tossed it at him.

“Cut it out. He likes Kallie better,” she said, referring to the other woman on the analyst team.

“Right,” said Manfred, looking me in the eye.

“Well, I think I’ll get a chance to meet him,” I said. “Gyawali wants me to give the presentation at the big building. I assume that means department management.”

That brightened up the room again.

“That’s great, Martin,” said Imogene. “Well done. That’s good for all of us.”

Imogene dropped the rest of her leftover crust into his lap, and stood up, signaling the end of lunch. He took it well, and we wandered back to our workstations. I’d slid my chair back in front of the computer and was trying to locate where I’d left off when Imogene stuck her face around the corner.

“You wouldn’t say anything to Rajendra about me and Chuck,” she said. “What Manfred was saying, that I have a problem with him. I really don’t. Rajendra might say something to the wrong person. He’s so unaware of things.”

“What things?”

She watched herself slide her fingers down the doorjamb, an odd gesture obviously meant to buy time. When she looked back at me, she appeared puzzled, as if responding to a rhetorical question.

“Good and evil,” she said. “What else?”

T
HAT
NIGHT
, I checked in on the monitoring software I’d installed on Chuck’s home computer. It was designed to capture information tied to certain keywords, like “mercenary,” “British Virgin Islands” and “break-in.” Only the last showed up. Apparently the effects of that trauma still lingered even after installing a security system. The contractor sent an order confirmation that specified the equipment and system configuration. Not a bad choice, I thought, though easily disabled at the site if you knew what you were doing. They also considered getting a dog, though Okayo’s worries about allergies and the cost of daily dog walkers trumped Chuck’s romantic vision of fishing with a loyal retriever at his side.

It made me think of our dog, Omni, with her head stuck over the side of the boat, snapping her jaws at flying fish. I wanted to tell the Andaluskys that another hazard of bringing a dog into your lives was the potential for long, painful separations.

Although Chuck occasionally conducted business through his personal e-mail, most of it was friendly, innocuous correspondence with associates and peers. Never with Rajendra Gyawali or anyone else I knew from our research office. The real meat of his operation was obviously conducted through his corporate e-mail, which I couldn’t access from his home computer or smartphone.

And no sign of Alberta. I paid particular attention to any e-mail to or from women, but nothing remotely suggested knowledge of the events aboard the fishing boat off the BVI, no matter who Chuck was corresponding with. If I hadn’t seen Chuck Andalusky face-to-face, I’d doubt we were dealing with the same person.

“I’m wondering how we could know so much about this guy without learning anything connected to our experience,” I said to Natsumi, when she sat down next to me at the computer.

“How would you know it was connected?”

“I don’t know. Something would jump out. It usually does.”

“But if you don’t know what you know, what good is all the information?” she asked.

“Now that we can capture more information than we know what to do with, the world is full of geniuses trying to figure out exactly that.”

“They probably won’t figure it out in time to help us.”

“Another thing I don’t know is how much better off we’d be if I had my old brain back,” I said. “The computational part that got sprayed across my living room.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well despite all that.”

“Maybe now that I’m not so obsessed with the numbers, I might better see the big picture. Who knows.”

She put her arms around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze.

“I know, Arthur. I have faith in you. Of that I am 100 percent certain.”

G
YAWALI
’
S
MOOD
on the drive over to the big building was almost ceremonial in its gravity and portentousness. He drove us in his Toyota Sienna minivan, both hands firmly gripping the wheel. I sat shotgun, Imogene and Manfred were in the rear seats.

They were there because I told Rajendra about their keen interest in the project and desire to see how it played out with management. It wasn’t a hard sell; he seemed pleased to have them along.

I wore a tie and sport jacket, even though I was told it was unnecessary, even counterproductive. But I couldn’t help myself, as I tried to explain to Natsumi that morning.

“When you go before management, you wear a tie,” I said. “It’s all I can do to resist the grey suit.”

“Is this the ghost of Arthur Cathcart past?”

“Yes.”

“Is it strange for you, sort of being back in your old life, though not really?”

“Very disorienting. I find myself forgetting how I ended up at that desk at work, though it’s helpful for sustaining the act. I really don’t have to act. The work comes easily, though I forget I’m an employee and not a hired gun. That’s more difficult. I used to fly over the sharks, now I’m swimming around in the same tank.”

“You’d think it was enough to just do their jobs,” she said.

“For a lot of corporate people, self-service is their job. Mostly at the expense of others. Their responsibilities toward the company’s actual business is a sideline.”

“Do you think your recent experience with professional killers and terrorists gives you a leg up with the corporate politics?”

I told her it might have been the other way around.

T
HE
BIG
building was in the middle of a large tract of land, a mix of forest and open fields. It was built in the seventies when corporate planners thought marooning their employees on a so-called campus away from other commercial activity would produce a more docile, focused workforce. Since the vogue was now to tear down these isolated behemoths and move everyone back into the city, the planners must have gotten it wrong. Fontaine bought it for a song when they absorbed the American company Consolidated Global Energies, so they likely didn’t care being out of step with architectural fashion.

The security people at the employee entrance were friendly with Gyawali, Manfred and Imogene, and mildly suspicious of me. They took a second look at my employee badge after letting me through the turnstile. The moment was also captured by a security camera up on the ceiling. I forced myself not to look at it directly.

A woman who worked in Andalusky’s office met us inside. She was a spare, ageless person wearing a hair band and black sneakers. She did a quick head count, then turned and we followed her in silence down a series of hallways. I thought I heard Manfred whistling “We’re Off To See The Wizard
”
under his breath.

The first stage of the journey ended at another reception room where our escort left us off with the words, “Wait here.”

Manfred muttered something in Russian, which I didn’t understand, though I made out “Colonel Klebb.” Imogene gave him a gentle elbow in the ribs. Gyawali busied himself examining a piece of insipid art hanging beside an empty fish tank. I experienced a sudden craving for a cup of coffee. When the stern woman reappeared, she led us through another warren of offices, these a few clicks up in pay grade with solid walls and doors, and little kitchens with coffee machines thus far denied to our traveling band.