A Billion Ways to Die (23 page)

I didn’t see Ansell the rest of that day, but Gyawali asked me to stop in before I left for the night. He was in his stark, paperless office wearing an off-white shirt that looked like he’d ironed it a few minutes before. He swiveled away from his computer screen and offered his hand. The grip was soft and dry.

“I figured you for a short timer,” he said. “So not a big surprise.”

“It’s only because you let me present at the big building.”

He nodded.

“Chuck’s been looking for somebody for a while. I thought you’d fill the bill.”

“You wanted this to happen,” I said.

“I planned it. The CEO wanted Ansell Andersen, but I convinced Chuck that even gratifying his boss wasn’t worth the hazard of letting that snake into the garden. You’re far more likely to support Chuck’s agenda. The question is, will you support ours?”

“Whose?”

“Research. We’re isolated over here in engineering. They look at us as technocrats, clueless number crunchers. We need someone in the inner circle to look after our interests. You haven’t been here that long, but you can see our value. You can do that for us, I think.”

He posed that last comment more as a question. I nodded.

“I think I can. I won’t know how until I get over there.”

“Good political answer,” he said, without rancor. “You’ll fit in well.”

Then he swiveled back to his computer and I knew I was dismissed from that meeting, and likely forever more.

So it was past the end of normal working hours when I finally encountered Ansell Andersen in the mail room. He was pulling sheets of paper out of a printer as they shot into the tray. He managed to continue this chore while staring up at me.

“You must have pictures of Andalusky having carnal relations with a spring ewe,” he said, in a low monotone that still managed to sound aggressive.

“It’s just a job,” I said, cleaning out my mailbox.

“And a 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB Spyder is just a car.”

“The Buddha would tell you wanting anything that badly is the surest way to never acquire it.”

He fumbled the last few sheets from the printer, crinkling the edges. He swore and shoved them into a recycling bin.

“The Buddha can kiss my ass.”

I turned to leave the room, but he grabbed me by the shoulder. The shock of the contact startled me, and I shook off his hand more violently than either of us expected, though it did little to calm his wrath.

“This isn’t my fight,” I said. “I’m just working here.”

“You’re right. It isn’t you,” he said. “You’re just an asshole passing through. It’s the fucking management of this place that should be jailed for criminal stupidity. But who’s going to do that? The fucking board of directors, who’re paid six figures to show up twice a year to cram their heads up the CEO’s ass?”

“I’m walking out of here now,” I said. “It’s probably a good idea not to put your hands on me again.”

He just stood and glowered. I thought I saw a vein throbbing in his forehead. I thought, maybe I should just stand there and taunt him till he stroked out. But instead I backed out of the mail room and he made no move to stop me.

I made it out of there physically intact, with my meager office belongings and a letter to show security at the big building when I showed up the next day as their newest employee.

C
HAPTER
18

T
he new job came with a serious upgrade in office accommodations. Four walls with a door and a window to the outside, a desk, computer station and credenza, and a bookcase prestocked with reference material left by the prior occupant.

I even had a theoretical percentage of an administrative assistant, though as the HR lady—the big building’s equivalent of Jenny Richardson—introduced us, the slim middle-aged woman with a Turkish accent gave me a look that said, “Don’t even think about it.”

The most interesting part of the orientation came that afternoon when a guy named Brian showed up at my door carrying a laptop computer.

“The IT man cometh,” he said. “Is now a good time?”

“For IT, any time’s a good time,” I said.

“That’s the kind of attitude we like to foster,” he said, slapping the laptop in front of me on the desk and flipping open the lid. He explained that with my new job I was categorized as a power user, warranting a personal visit by tech support. I let him walk me through basic instructions, establishing myself as an amenable computer naïf, not entirely helpless, but unlikely to challenge or be much of a burden on the technology edifice.

When he got to the file servers, I was able to ask the question that had been on my mind since joining the company: “Just tell me where I’m allowed to go and where I’m not.”

“I don’t have to tell you,” he said. “You don’t go anywhere your password won’t let you. But since you asked, anything with a little padlock icon, forget about it.”

“I guess the security is sort of tight around here.”

“Tighter than a gnat’s rectum. Our cybersecurity team is all ex-military. The rest of us aren’t allowed to talk to them. Shit, we can’t even look at ’em.”

I held up my hands in abject surrender.

“They’ll get no trouble from me,” I said.

“You’re right, they won’t.”

As soon as he left I took inventory of the files marked with the padlock icon. There weren’t that many, which told me I couldn’t see the really interesting stuff. I went into the list of corporate applications and wrote down the name and version of the Spam filter. Then I signed into the file folders I was allowed to see and did a little of the work they were paying me to do, which would all be recorded somewhere through an application buried deep inside the new laptop’s operating system.

Before leaving for the day, I went back into the file servers and made a few alterations. I left the laptop where it was and went home, eager to tell Natsumi all about my first day on the new job.

The next day, as planned, I was blocked out of the file servers, so I called my new friend Brian.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“I was just going through the various folders to see what I had access to and what I might need in the future, and some funny-looking windows popped open and I think I clicked some stuff I shouldn’t have. I’m really sorry, I should know better.”

“No worries, I’ll be there in an hour.”

He was true to his word, and without a lot of preamble, sat in front of my laptop and logged in.

“You somehow managed to delete all your permissions,” he said. “No big deal, I can do it from here. You’re not a key tapper, are you?”

“A what?”

“People who get into trouble and just start hitting keys at random. You’d be amazed at the hole you can dig for yourself without even trying.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve done it.”

“That’s obvious.”

In less than ten minutes he had me back in business, with a minimum of condescension and tart warnings about staying in the cyber lanes.

“Got it, chief,” I said to his back as he left my office.

I waited a prudent few minutes before opening up the application that had captured his log-in information—admin user name and password. Then I deleted all trace of the application on the laptop. It was possible that Fontaine’s crack cybersecurity team’s monitoring capabilities had spotted its presence within their network, if only for a few minutes. So it represented a risk, though one I had to take if I was going to keep moving.

Minutes later my desk phone rang and I almost leaped out of my chair. Amused and annoyed at myself, I picked up the receiver.

“Mr. Goldman,” said a spritely female voice. I recognized it as Patricia Cheerborg’s.

“Marty,” I said.

“Marty, Chuck wants to buy you lunch. At noon. In the cafeteria.”

“If I can find it.”

“Just follow your nose. And I mean that in the nicest way. And by the way, welcome aboard. You’ll be happy with your decision.”

“I already am. No free lunch over there in research.”

I did find the cafeteria with a minimum of effort. It was in a huge, glass-walled room, with shimmering chrome ceiling and aluminum tables and chairs. Chuck was waiting for me at the head of the food line, which featured preparations you’d find at a fine restaurant if any stooped low enough to offer a buffet. He shook my hand and gave me a small red ticket.

“Good for anything here,” he said. “Backed by the full faith and credit of The Société Commerciale Fontaine.”

“A pastrami sandwich should do it.”

“You can take the boy out of Brooklyn,” he said. “If I read your LinkedIn profile correctly.”

“You did,” I said, swallowing the bit of my heart that wanted to jump up into my throat. “Lost the accent, I’m afraid.”

“If you say so. All you Easterners sound the same to me.”

After securing our meals, we found a table well away from any possible eavesdropper.

“Well, I wanted to thank you for joining our little group,” he said, awkwardly offering his hand for a second time. “I’ve wanted a staffer with some serious research skills for a while now. The good news these days is we’re basically drowning in data. The bad news is we’re drowning in data. Gyawali’s team isn’t up to it. They’re fine for the big studies, but I need to know what’s going on day-to-day. I can’t be hauling those people over here every time some government agency, or NGO or God-knows what interoffice asshole dumps a pile of statistics in our laps. I need my own geek, no insult intended.”

“None taken. Geeks are fashionable these days.”

“You got that right,” he said, grasping a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, as if prepared to either cut up his cordon bleu or attack his lunch guest. “From where I sit, you people are running the world. They say we’re in a technology revolution; I say bullshit. The revolution’s over and the techs have won. All that’s left now is to complete the conquest.”

“I guess I better get in line for my share of the spoils,” I said.

“You got nothing to worry about. I knew that when you were presenting. I saw what you did there, fuckin’ hacker.”

I had another chance to calm my heart while he took a big bite of chicken, ham and cheese.

“Hacker?” I asked.

“You pulled data right out of Fontaine’s archives in Zurich. It was from the early nineties before they were even over here. I know this because I used to work in that office. I recognized the branding on the PowerPoint slide.”

“Guilty as charged,” I said, in a weak voice. “Though anyone in Fontaine has access to those files.”

He shushed away the thought.

“I know. Just kidding about the hacker thing. Truth is, it’s the kind of initiative I wish I could get out of Gyawali and his boys, but it just doesn’t happen.”

“His boys and girls. There’re two of them.”

“Don’t go all feminist on me. I get enough of that crap from Patricia.”

“Just noting.”

“You probably noted Imogene. Freaky chick, if you ask me. Not to go running to HR, but did she hit on you?”

I shook my head.

“Probably cause you’re single. I think she goes for the married type. Whenever I talk to the girl, she invades my space. Gets too close for comfort. You know the type?”

“Not really,” I said, honestly.

“I’ve got a five foot eleven Nubian princess at home. I don’t need any of that career-killing shit, you know what I mean?”

“I understand what you’re saying. I’m just a boring work dog. Politics of every kind, sexual or not, goes right over my head.”

He nodded as he chewed through another wad of food, having shoveled about a pound more of his meal into his mouth. I remembered one of my research clients from years ago, an organizational psychologist, telling me to beware of people who ate like hungry lions. As with the big cats, it was a good idea to keep your distance.

“Don’t get me wrong about Gyawali,” he said, the feral look in his eyes deepening. “Smarter than shit. And Imogene, too, freak or no freak. They’re all smart people, but they’ve got some kind of fucked-up notion about the politics around here.”

That was for sure, I thought. But I said, “Research and analytics?”

“Yeah, but for who?” He took out a pen and drew a few boxes connected by arrows on his napkin. “This is Gyawali’s group. Nominally, they’re supposed to support Economic and Cultural Development, which is me. But officially, they’ve only got a dotted-line responsibility. They support me, but don’t actually
repor
t to me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Andalusky. “The hard line goes right to the CEO. Even though most of their funding comes out of my budget. I mean, what the hell.

“To the CEO it’s a black box. The son of a bitch got his chemical engineering degree in 1965, and hasn’t cracked a technical manual since. Sales guy. Fucking Frenchman, could charm the pants off Angela Merkel. Rumor has it he actually did back in the day, proven by all the contracts we get from the Federal Republic. But he loves the damn numbers, the quantitative justification for whatever venal, greedy, exploitative shit the company wants to get into, and I mean that as a loyal Fontaine employee.”

I wondered how the disloyal ones would have put it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, a phrase he often used as a palliative to all the things he said that he didn’t mean, or meant and didn’t want you to think he did. “The contribution Fontaine makes to the well-being of millions of people around the world is incalculable. It’s a multiplier, something like ten dollars returned to the local economy for every dollar invested in a Fontaine infrastructure project.”

I wanted to say he just calculated the incalculable, but even my unpracticed political instincts knew that was a bad idea.

“What’s the multiplier to Fontaine’s income for every dollar invested in a local official’s pet project?” I asked.

“That doesn’t sound like the do-gooder I read about on your résumé,” he said.

“Altruism feeds the soul, though it isn’t too kind to the bank account. Especially when there’s a negative balance big enough to choke a horse.”

“Overextended are we?”

“Beer budget, champagne tastes. The usual dreary story. Since I’m not going to change my tastes, I better improve the budget.”