Capitol Reflections (24 page)
“Because people have good taste, and we serve the best coffee in the country.”
“Your honor, please instruct the witness to address the question.”
Hamlin smiled broadly. “Okay. Guilty as charged. The truth, Mark, is that we use excellent, quality beans that are roasted by one of the finest roastmasters in the world.”
“What kind of beans? Colombian, I presume.”
“That’s proprietary information, which is the norm for all food and beverage companies. If you wrote Celestial Seasonings and asked how much ginseng went into their Ginseng Plus tea, you’d get a polite letter thanking you for your interest, but the company wouldn’t answer your question.”
“Does Pequod’s get a lot of letters asking for information on the beans?”
“All the time, and to be truthful, most are probably honest queries from individuals who like our coffee. Others are no doubt from competitors.”
“Who’s the roastmaster?”
“Dieter Tassin. Undoubtedly the best in the world at what he does.”
“What’s his background?”
“Dieter worked at a world-class restaurant in the California wine country before joining our team.”
“So you found Tassin by accident while dining there one evening? Kismet?”
“It was Gregory who actually convinced Dieter that his future was at Pequod’s. It was a chance for Tassin to devote his talent to a nationwide enterprise rather than confine it to a single establishment.”
“What about your competitors? Do they stand a chance against a juggernaut like Pequod’s?”
Hamlin looked the reporter in the eye. “There are hundreds of brands out there, and most turn a healthy profit. We’re certainly never going to put Maxwell House or Folgers out of business. As for small chains, some are quite successful, and they can thank Pequod’s for that. If someone wants gourmet coffee and happens upon another store while riding down the street, our competition is going to get that person’s business. We’ve enhanced the image of the entire gourmet coffee industry, not just our own.”
“With the expansion, however, it’s going to become more and more unlikely that people won’t be able to find a Pequod’s while riding anywhere,” the reporter continued. “Or walking, for that matter. We’re talking airports, bookstores, park kiosks, shopping malls, drive-thrus, to name just a few, right?”
“I think you may be overstating the case a bit. First of all, there’s that other big chain. More importantly, though, people have free will. No one is forcing consumers to buy our product. If someone can find a better cup of coffee elsewhere, then go for it. The fact is that people like our product better.”
Mark tilted his head and scratched his cheek. “You and I both know that taste and perception can be shaped by advertising and availability.”
“Our marketing campaigns are designed to do one thing: get people to try our product. Beyond that, what people do is out of our hands. We’re grateful for our customers’ loyalty, of course, and hope that they’ll continue to patronize our stores. We have good coffee and good PR. We’re naturally not ashamed of either.”
Hamlin was handling each question like a pro. Mark didn’t necessarily agree with Hamlin’s assessment—hell, he was on the side of the small guy—but he had to admit that Hamlin’s answers were right down the center of the pipe: capitalism, free will, and competition. It came down to the old adage: if someone can build a better mouse-trap, then let ’em do it.
“Any plans to move into grocery stores?”
“Yes and no. We’ll never vacuum-pack our coffee and sell it in a grocery setting.”
“Why not?”
“People can’t get the same kind of great hot coffee with chocolate, caramel, cinnamon, or whipped cream, to name just a few of the extra ingredients we use, except in our stores, where each cup is individually served according to a customer’s preference. ‘A little extra of, this, please, a little more of that.’ There’s an art in how we do that that would be difficult to replicate at home.”
“You make drinking coffee sound almost mystical.”
“It is. The ritual has been around for a mighty long time. Pequod’s has simply made it more enjoyable by taking it to a new level.”
Mark put down his pen and looked vacantly at East 57th Street. He had hoped to come away from the interview disliking Billy Hamlin, but that wasn’t going to happen. The Pequod’s CEO was a charming, open man who cared deeply about his product. The story on Hamlin was nothing more than “honest guy graduates and catches a break with a company that sells a part of American culture.” When it was finally time to submit the column on Pequod’s to his editor, the piece would probably express the opinion that there was hope for America yet. There were still good companies out there run by good men. In fact, Pequod’s sold a product that actually helped people say “hi” to each other in the morning. Mark felt there was no harm in giving his acerbic wit a vacation in order to do a “feel good” piece occasionally. If he stumbled upon a hopeful trend in a country where people were growing more alienated, wasn’t he bound to report that, too?
“So,” said Hamlin, “care to join me for dinner tonight?”
The question jolted Mark from his musings. “Um, sure. Dinner sounds fine.”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Deal.”
30
“I’m shut out of the system,” said Peter Tippett, a sheepish grin and hangdog expression on his face. He and Jan were having midmorning coffee at the new Pequod’s minibar in a park bordering world-famous Peachtree Street in Atlanta.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Peter watched Jan’s concerned expression. She was an unusual woman—she actually became more attractive when she looked worried. “I’ll deal with it. It’s just that I tried to access BioNet, and ran into a gatekeeper program that even monitors internal maintenance accounts. Not quite impenetrable, but it sure does slow a guy down. I simply can’t get into it at present. Have you tried any routine runs lately?”
“Not since yesterday morning. And we already have numerous firewalls.”
“Gatekeepers are a bit different. I’m guessing this one was installed sometime after your last run yesterday.”
Jan’s brow furrowed. “That means somebody is noticing us.”
“Perhaps. But if the system is compromised from the inside, you would expect the powers that be to do something like this sooner or later. I suspect it’s actually good news.”
“How so?”
“It means that the system is, in all likelihood, functional, though only for a select few.”
“But I’m director of the whole damn project!”
As appealing as she looked in this intense state, Jan had to calm down. Peter touched her arm. “I said I’ll deal with it. I’ll simply remove the gatekeeper and replace it with one that is almost identical.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. I can neutralize the gate with a program called X-Vader. I then insert a new gatekeeper that looks exactly like the original, except that it will have one very minor but important difference—the replacement will have a lock that recognizes our key as well as theirs.”
Jan smiled. Her face was actually quite lovely with any expression.
“You really are a genius, aren’t you?”
Surprisingly, Peter found himself blushing. “So I’ve been told,” he said off-handedly.
“So when do we do this?”
“In the dark of night, of course.”
Jan sipped her coffee and held him with her eyes. It dawned on Peter that there were multiple mysteries to solve in this project.
Panting and sweating, Jack rolled away from Gwen on their king-sized bed. Was it just his imagination or had Gwen become a more passionate lover since they made the decision to have a child? For all he knew, Gwen found some research that suggested that children conceived during vigorous sex scored higher on the SATs. No, she would have told him if she had. She told him everything. At least she used to.
“Love you,” Gwen said dreamily.
Jack kissed his wife gently on the forehead as she drifted off to sleep. “Love you, too.”
Gwen normally liked to cuddle after lovemaking, but she dozed off quickly tonight. A man more concerned with his talents as “a swordsman” might have bragged to himself that he’d literally knocked his wife out with pleasure. Jack wasn’t that guy, though. And he knew that Gwen’s early slumber probably had more to do with a heavy work schedule.
That assumed, of course, that Gwen was actually working at work. These days, she rarely said anything about it.
Jack stared at the ceiling, his breathing returning to normal. He closed his eyes, but fifteen minutes later found himself still tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the secret he knew Gwen kept from him. Or the one he kept from her.
Finally, he got out of bed and tiptoed downstairs, carefully closing the French doors behind him as he stepped onto the patio and pulled a cigarette from a crumpled pack he had started to hide in the bottom drawer of his desk ever since that day at the Newmans.
His decision to investigate Marci’s death independently was the first time he had ever acted behind Gwen’s back. Still, at least in his case, he had good intentions. He wanted to crack this case so Gwen could hand it off to the appropriate superiors at the FDA, and maybe even the FBI, depending on what he found. His objective was to present his wife with clear answers, all neatly contained in a single file, and say, “It’s over, honey! Your very own Secret Service agent solved the mystery!” He knew if he gave her only preliminary leads, however, that she would want to go down all sorts of avenues that might take months to explore. That wasn’t going to work. If Gwen became pregnant, he wanted her searching for baby accessories and color schemes for a nursery, not criminals.
But aside from a bizarre encounter in Yonkers, New York, Haydn104 still yielded nothing. There was nothing on Marci Newman’s PC to decrypt.
The only thing that calmed him was to light a cigarette and take a long drag, letting the smoke swirl deep inside his lungs.
He stood in the cool air for a while, pondering how to proceed. His discomfort dissipated. He crushed the butt of his second cigarette and headed inside to brush his teeth and wash his face and hands in the hopes of getting the tobacco smell off before returning to bed.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of an automobile engine coming from the front of the house. Walking through the side yard, he positioned himself behind a large rhododendron and surveyed the street from a crouching position. An unmarked white van was slowly rolling past his neighbor’s house. Jack knew that it had been in front of his own moments before, engine idling.
Were they under surveillance?
“Nah,” he muttered. “Probably just somebody lost. I stayed in the damned Secret Service too long. A van is a van is a van.”
At the end of the block, the white van turned the corner. The driver flipped open his cell phone and punched its speed dial. “Subjects appear to be alone. The house is dark. Ops Two clear at 2300 hours.”
Without waiting for a response, the driver closed the phone.
The van picked up speed and left the neighborhood. It would return two hours later to check on the Maulder home.
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