by Joe Goldberg
Beatrice stood and walked toward the private room. The guard stood and blocked her way.
“I’m sorry,” she said, appearing startled. “I am looking for the ladies’ room?”
“Over there.” When he took his eyes off of her to point her in the right direction, she raised a mini-Devil Stick and let him have a small dose. She turned away as Bridger grabbed the man by the lapels—ignoring the pain in his wrist—and guided him through the swinging doors into the private dining room.
Peter held the door open, then let it swing closed. Bridger pushed the man into the room and let him fall to the carpeted floor like a tree, making sure he didn’t hit any of the four tables on the way down.
Chapel sat at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. Gilbert was seated to his left.
“Hi, guys. Mind if we join you?”
57
A Delicious Ruffino Chianti
Lombard, Illinois
“Bridger. Peter. This is a surprise. I will be honest.” Chapel’s face remained impassive. He looked at his comatose guard on the floor, then to the door. Bridger shook his head. “The rest of my men?”
“None of your goons will be coming to your rescue.”
Bridger pulled out the wood and green leather chair and sat across from Chapel. Peter took the remaining seat across from Gilbert, whose face furrowed with confusion.
“Hi Gilbert,” Peter said.
“Yes, hello, Gilbert,” Bridger said. “Heard any good jokes lately?”
“Peter? Arnie? Arnie Palmer?” Gilbert was confused.
Chapel looked at Bridger with a raised eyebrow. Bridger shrugged.
Gilbert was teetering between shock and panic. He gripped the armrests like he was on a rollercoaster and began to stand.
“Gilbert. Hang around for a minute.” Bridger gingerly raised his hand in a stop sign. “We are starving.” Bridger looked at Peter, then Chapel. “Did you order?”
The door swung open, and a pear-shaped waiter, carrying a bottle of red wine, walked in. He gasped and froze when he saw the body on the floor.
“Charles! Over here. It is good to see you again. What are we drinking?”
Charles stepped by the prone man and approached the table. “A beautiful red wine a—”
“—a delicious Ruffino Chianti,” Chapel added, trying to regain control of the situation.
Bridger reached into his blazer pocket and handed Charles an envelope.
“Here is the rest I owe you, Charles, and twice that for any unexpected residual effects. Get something for your wife, Dolores. Please give her my regards and that I hope we can meet soon. If you could uncork that delicious wine, then leave us to complete our meeting, I would appreciate that. Make sure we are not disturbed, will you? Thank you, Charles.”
“Yes, sir.” Charles nodded, took the money, shoved it into his white apron, filled each glass with a good pour, and went out the door, making sure it was closed behind him.
Bridger raised his wine glass high. Chapel followed. Peter hesitated, then raised his glass in confusion. Gilbert did not move a muscle.
“A toast. To Hell. May the stay there be as enjoyable as the way there.” Bridger smiled and sipped. Bridger savored his sip and nodded his approval to Chapel, then he looked at the duffel bag.
“I assume, Gilbert, being the patriot that you are and despite pressure and instructions,” he continued as he picked up a cracker, “you were not pleased with giving away classified government projects. So, you didn’t. Consequently, MacLean’s case was empty when we opened it.”
Gilbert un-coiled in elation.
“Yes. Yes. Exactly!” He was so excited he accidentally bumped his wine glass with his gesticulating hands. The white table cloth went purple. He started to sop it up with a napkin.
“A waste of fine Chianti,” Chapel said. He had already finished his glass and was pouring himself another full glass.
“Go on, Gilbert,” Bridger said as he picked up a warm dinner roll.
“The woman called and said it was alright. It was important government work that Kirkwood had approved. I still wasn’t sure, then Mr. Chapel came.”
“Gilbert. Does this actually contain—whatever it is?”
“Yes.” Gilbert’s eyes darted in a circuit from Bridger, Peter, the bag, Chapel, then to his lap. He took a sip of wine.
“What is in it, Gilbert?” Peter asked.
Gilbert shifted in his chair, avoiding eye contact.
“Gilbert, I think you should go now and enjoy the rest of your evening. Oh, and leave the duffel,” Bridger said politely, leaning his smiling face in the man’s direction.
Hesitant at first, Gilbert looked at Chapel for approval, and when he received the nod, he said his goodbyes and left as quickly as he could.
“Such a nice man, that Gilbert. Loyal. A patriot.” Bridger sipped his wine. “I am sorry if losing the Bondar account cuts into your business in Ukraine.”
“On the contrary! I want to thank you. Poor Olek is in way over his head and has already reached out for my support—which I happily gave with a twenty percent increase in my fee.” Chapel raised his wine glass toward Bridger, took a drink of chianti, and smiled.
“Well, I didn’t expect that, but congratulations, Danny.” It was Bridger’s turn to toast and drink.
“What is your objective, Bridger? Does this intrusion have, well, have a point?”
Bridger took a bite of a roll and relished the moment. Then he continued.
“Man, I could use a steak. I think I have most of it, but I need you to explain one thing, Chapel.”
“How can I help?” Chapel finished another glass of wine.
“I understand that Chen didn’t get the case because Bondar stepped in, but why not just give it to Chen in the first place? What was the need for all the Kirkwood melodrama, and getting poor Peter here caught in the cross-hairs?” Bridger looked at Peter, who was nodding.
“I’m kind of interested myself,” Peter said as he twirled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.
Chapel sat back, brushed his tie, and looked from Bridger to Peter.
“I am sorry to say, Peter, that your entire escapade was just, well, a futile act by your management. We had a confluence of semi-separate events that needed addressing. First, May had arranged for Chen to receive Hillcrest—with senior corporate approval. Next, you had Kirkwood International in some quite stressful financial situations and needed the Mourning Dove relationship to continue. Plus, they needed Viktor Bondar to make payments on the LeonidOre deal. That was a bad deal by MacLean.”
“For the company. Not for him,” Peter added.
“Exactly, Peter. You were exactly correct in your analysis,” Chapel said.
Chapel poured the last drops of wine into his glass and set the bottle aside. He looked at the door expecting a waiter to be ready with another bottle. He looked away when he realized Charles was not returning.
“Then there is Viktor Bondar, who had his own financial situation with the Chinese and who mistakenly believed he could hold Hillcrest hostage for more contracts. On this point, Ira was correct. Viktor was past his prime. Finally, we had George McLean—who was recruited by Chen several years ago—and who was going to cause some significant disruption by exposing his connection with Chinese intelligence. That would hurt Kirkwood’s businesses. Most critically, the driving force was the potential exposure of Chen by MacLean. That would destroy any chance of promotion to the head of MSS. A lot of hard work would be ruined.”
“And May would not be happy,” Bridger said.
“And May would not be happy,” Chapel repeated.
Chapel took a drink of water and frowned.
“All those separate events were connected by Chen, you, and May, of course,” Bridger concluded.
“Yes, indeed. By eliminating George and getting the case to Chen, that would solve three, as Chen could make certain the Mourning Dove deals continued without fear of exposure.”
“
And we take out Viktor for Ira, with some agreement brokered by you that she pays on the contracts.”
“Exactly. As it has turned out, once this case gets to Chen, everything will have worked out for everyone.”
“Everyone except Beast.” Bridger corrected Chapel with a statement of fact.
“Yes. That was unfortunate.”
Peter raised a finger to get their attention.
“So, MacBride, Kirkwood, and Jessup know about this? That Hillcrest was being taken to the Chinese? They allowed that?”
“Allowed? They were ecstatic when presented with this as a way to appease their Chinese partners and get paid. They just did not want to know all the details.” Chapel took a larger sip of water. “It is most interesting to see what supposedly very intelligent people will do when faced with the ruin of their fortune, reputation, or both.”
Imp spoke into Bridger and Peter’s comm.
“We have something on the Chapel comm system. Cars coming. More security. Three minutes out.” They looked at each other.
“Well, Danny, as fun as this has been, we need to go. And you were wrong about one thing,” Bridger said as he stood. “You don’t have the case to give to Chen. Peter, could you grab the duffel?”
“Peter,” Chapel said with a layer of warning in his voice. “Think.”
Peter hesitated as he reached his arm toward the bag. He looked at Chapel, then picked up the bag.
“I don’t have to think.”
“Bridger,” Chapel called out, as the men reached the door. They looked back. “You know what you have to do. It is the only option. It’s up to her, not you.”
Bridger paused and glared at Chapel. He took the bag from Peter, turned, and walked out of the room.
58
Certificate of Appreciation
Kirkwood Headquarters
Sitting in his office the next morning, Peter assumed the call would come early, and it did. The electronic ring ricocheted off the metal walls of his small office.
“Peter, this is Tom. Could you come up?”
The voice was off. Pleasant, but forced.
When he arrived outside the office, Marilyn, his admin, was in her cubicle. She didn’t look Peter in the eyes.
“Hello, Peter. Go on in.”
MacBride sat behind his desk, rocking in his executive chair. Sitting to his right, on the end of the couch opposite the door, chin-up, straight-backed, was Sheila the Human Resources grim reaper, with her face expressing a mixture of false compassion and corporate duty.
Peter heard a noise come from behind him. Benton closed the door and leaned against it.
“Peter, sit down, please.” MacBride indicated the guest chair opposite Sheila.
Peter sat, consciously keeping his head up, body forward, and eyes level.
“Sheila?” MacBride looked at her. She was ready.
“It has come to our attention that you have seriously violated Kirkwood policies.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We were alerted, by Benton, to your unauthorized access to confidential corporate documents. Specifically, the receipt of numerous files of executive staff meeting minutes, financial documents, and details on classified technology programs. Is this true?”
Peter was as still as roadkill. It was true, but he wasn’t going to say anything until he heard it all.
“Keep going.”
Sheila wrinkled her face in disappointment.
“The IT data is clear,” she continued. “As you know, Sandy Boyd has already been fired—dismissed, I mean. Your actions, like hers, are in direct violation of IT and corporate policies. There is also the even more serious fact of your escorting an authorized individual into the classified areas of KRT. Do you deny any of this?” She looked at Peter with an HR holier than thou smug face.
“Anything else?” He would not to admit to anything.
“However,” she picked up the folder, “senior leadership has directed HR to offer a quite generous compensation package.” She flipped it open and looked at the first page. “To be honest, it is much more than I would have offered, or think should be offered, but—”
“Sheila.” MacBride cut her off. His rocking stopped. “Given your long history and your recent efforts, we want to show our appreciation.”
Peter was confused.
“Am I being rewarded or fired?”
“Yes. We appreciate your long service and recent efforts,” MacBride said. “Sheila will explain the details.”
She opened the folder with a quick flip of her wrist.
“As I stated, this is quite a unique severance package. One I —”
“Sheila. We have gone over his. Please continue,” was all MacBride said.
Peter enjoyed watching Sheila squirm. She was caught between her disapproval of whatever was to come and her inherent need to appear to management—at all times—as a loyal and professional employee. With a sigh, she picked up a large document-sized golden envelope and read aloud.
“For your recent efforts on behalf of Kirkwood International Industries.”
She reluctantly handed him an envelope.
“That is ten thousand fully vested incentive stock options. You have ninety days to exercise them,” MacBride announced.
Peter was speechless and confused.
Sheila continued.
“The current Kirkwood severance pay is one week for every year worked. Although you have only been with the company for eleven years, I have been authorized to offer you twenty-two months of pay. Plus, the company will fully cover your health insurance costs for this same period.” She closed the folder and handed it to Peter. “Quite generous, as I said.” She handed him the folder.
“Why?” Peter looked at MacBride, who was rocking slightly in his chair.
“Why are you being released, or the severance package?”
“No. Yes. Both.”
“To receive the options, the extended severance, and health care, you must sign a binding non-disclosure agreement.” MacBride stopped rocking. “Legally binding.”
“Another NDA? Why? What for?”
“Walter thought you needed an NDA that contained more specific post-employment restrictions.” MacBride tilted his head so his glasses could focus on a sheet of paper. “You are not allowed to discuss, write about, or present any facets of your work at Kirkwood. All your files would be sequestered by lawyers as they are property of the company. You cannot take anything concerning this operation with you. We keep your laptop and phone. They are company property.”
“For how long?”
“Forever. In the event you want an exception to this NDA, you are required to get written approval, in advance, from Walter Jessup directly.” MacBride paused as he sat back and started swiveling again. “Despite whatever actions taken during the recent Ukraine events, you have been an asset to the company and we want you to know that.”
Peter looked at the folder with the stock options. It felt expensive. The gold embossed lettering shone in the fluorescent lights, creating a contrast to the matte black background. It told the ex-employee, you may not have a job, but you have a nice souvenir folder to remember us by.
“What if I don’t sign?”
“Why wouldn’t you sign?” Sheila was apoplectic. “There are thousands of employees who would beg for this package. Not sign? Are you kidding?”
Peter heard Benton let out a grunt. He had forgotten Benton was still in the room.
“Sheila, will you excuse us? Thank you.” MacBride waved his arm to the door. “Benton, you can stay.”
Slightly flustered, she did her best not to show it as the door closed behind her.
“Not signing would be a mistake. Then you will be immediately terminated with cause and without any severance. Benton. Tell him,” MacBride said.
“There is that bunch of incriminating documents you already received from Boyd. If others were added to your files—and they have—when found would show you are a spy for
China. Hell, you let a foreign spy into our classified area—it would be more than what we need. Twenty years in prison—minimum,” Benton said, as happy as Peter had ever seen him.
“Yes, I got docs from Sandy, but you know none of the rest is true,” Peter said, as his pulse raced.
“What does the truth have to do with anything?” Benton replied with a snort.
MacBride stood. He moved to Sheila’s vacated spot on the couch. “Sheila is annoying, but she is right.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You should take it. Sign it, Peter. Please. We don’t want this to go any further, but if we have to, we will—to protect the company.”
Peter saw MacBride glance up to Benton, who was still leaning against the door. MacBride continued.
“Then we can all move on from this. You may be interested to know that Gilbert Street retired this morning.”
“A loss for Kirkwood.” Peter stood. “Thanks for the offer, I mean it, but I’m not signing. I quit.”
“Peter!” A stunned MacBride said, as he watched Peter turn and walk to the door. Benton blocked his way out. Peter moved in close.
“Please move.”
Benton waited, then stepped aside, not hiding the grin on his face.
“See ya, Schaeffer.”
At 4 a.m., Peter thought he heard a soft snap, followed by a metal rumble downstairs. It sounded like the screen door to the patio was loose. James was known for not closing it all the way. If it was a windy night, Peter had to get up in the dark to stop it from rattling and banging with every gust.
He hoped he just imagined it.
He hadn’t slept much after the events of the day. One moment he had a job—the next, he had nothing. It was a cover-up. He wouldn’t play, but he had a family to support. But he also didn’t want to go to prison.
Then he heard another sound.
Peter let Janelle sleep as he slid out of bed. He checked to see if James was asleep, closed his door, then went downstairs. As he took the last step, he heard electronic sparks. The sound was followed by a grunt and the unmistakable sound of a body free-falling and hitting a hard surface.