Upon A Pale Horse (Bio-Thriller)

by Russell Blake

  “No, I’m fine. If we can find someplace to stow it in the cabin, that’ll be good.”

  “Of course. Watch your step.”

  Jeffrey mounted the stairs, pausing to nod to the two pilots in the cockpit who were completing their pre-flight checklists.

  “Good morning,” the older one said, turning to him. “Ready to get going?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jennifer directed him to a chocolate leather seat and indicated the recliner across from him for his bag. He placed it on the seat and she ran the seatbelt through the handle before buckling it.

  “Just in case we hit some bumpy air. Which is unlikely. We’ll be well above the weather. Our flight plan has us at forty-three thousand feet most of the way, so it should be smooth sailing,” she assured him. “Can I get you something to drink while we’re waiting to taxi?”

  “No thanks. Maybe some coffee once we’re airborne.”

  “Very good, sir,” she said, and moved back to close the exterior door.

  Jeffrey sank into the plush leather in wonder. He’d never flown in a private plane before, and this one oozed expensive refinement, with heavy burled walnut paneling lacquered to a high gloss, leather everything, and a state-of-the-art monitor mounted forward with a U.S. map and an icon of the plane blinking on the screen.

  Ten minutes later they were in first position for takeoff, and he was pushed back into his seat by the thrust of the powerful engines as they launched down the runway and then streaked up into the sky, climbing at a seemingly impossible angle before banking over the fogbank that cloaked the bay and heading east.

  The trip was everything he imagined it would be, Jennifer waiting on him as if he were a visiting dignitary, anticipating his every need. He declined the offer of a cocktail, preferring to stay sharp for his meeting that afternoon, and instead focused on catching up on work, still badly behind after his three-day sabbatical. And now, here he was, winging his way back to Washington, a city he’d only been to twice before in his life.

  He’d chosen a navy blue blazer and white oxford broadcloth shirt with a conservative burgundy tie that matched his belt and shoes, which nicely complemented his khaki slacks. Once they reached their cruising altitude he took off the jacket, and Jennifer hung it in a small closet at the front of the jet. As they sliced through the sky at six hundred miles per hour he wondered silently at how much the trip cost, and figured it at somewhere around fifteen grand each way, minimum. Whoever the firm was, money was obviously the least of its concerns, which boded well for his pay scheme if he got the job.

  That he was interested was a given. It would be years before he would make anything like the figures bouncing around in his head, and even with the crappy East Coast weather, it was worth relocating. And it wasn’t like he was married to San Francisco. Other than a few friends, more weekend drinking buddies than anything, he was footloose and fancy free, most of his college chums having moved away to careers either in New York or Los Angeles. And his romantic life was a shambles, so it wasn’t like he would be making a huge sacrifice.

  When they landed the sky was gray. Pregnant clouds lolled over the city, threatening an imminent downpour, which matched his mood from the last time he had been there only three days before. When he negotiated the stairs to terra firma he was assaulted by a gust of icy wind that sliced through him like he was naked. He had a brief vision of nearly nude old men running to dive into a partially frozen lake, an image from a TV commercial long forgotten, and he shivered involuntarily as he walked to the terminal.

  A tall, dignified Hispanic man in a black driver’s suit, replete with peaked cap, stood by the building’s double doorway, a laminated red sign with his last name on it lest Mr. Rutherford somehow miss him in the crowd of one. Jeffrey followed him to a black sedan and ensconced himself in the back seat, marveling at the white glove treatment he’d received so far. If the intention had been to impress him, it was working.

  The car negotiated the weekend roads with the precision of a guided missile, and in forty-five minutes it glided to a halt in the underground parking garage of a modern building only a few minutes from the White House. The driver, who hadn’t said a word during the entire trip, shut off the engine, slid from behind the wheel, and rounded the vehicle to hold Jeffrey’s door open for him. Jeffrey shouldered his overnight bag and followed him to an elevator, studying the man’s profile as they waited for it to arrive: lean, fit, probably mid-forties, the small puckers of adolescent acne scars the only visible imperfection.

  When the elevator arrived at the fourth floor, Jeffrey found himself in the granite-floored reception area of the executive search firm. A ravishing Asian woman wearing a severe business suit gave him a hundred-dollar smile from behind the reception desk.

  “Mr. Rutherford? I hope your trip was pleasant?”

  “Yes, thanks. Everything’s been perfect so far.”

  “Good. Let me ring Mr. Anton and let him know you’ve arrived. Have a seat. Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?”

  “No, I’m good. Thanks, though,” Jeffrey said, sitting on one of the tan leather couches.

  The woman pressed something on an unseen console and murmured into her headset, then returned her gaze to Jeffrey, who was looking around the offices with polite interest. The furnishings looked expensive, as did the receptionist.

  “Mr. Rutherford, please come this way. Mr. Anton will see you now.”

  Jeffrey followed her back into a labyrinth of offices – considerably more than he would have guessed an executive placement agency needed; but then again, he had about as much experience with that animal as he did with private jets. They arrived at a koa wood door that was partially open, and the woman gave a courtesy knock and motioned for Jeffrey to enter.

  A heavyset man with thick, obviously dyed hair the color of wet straw, wearing a gray pinstripe suit that cost more than Jeffrey’s car, stepped out from behind the desk, hand extended in greeting.

  “Jeffrey Rutherford. The man of the hour. Welcome. Roger Anton. You can call me Roger,” he said, eyeing Jeffrey the way an eagle eyes a rabbit.

  Jeffrey took his hand and shook it, noting the perfectly manicured nails and the strong but not overwhelming grip. “Pleased to meet you, Roger.”

  “Sit,” Roger invited, tapping a heavy leather upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Throw your bag by the couch and take a load off.”

  Jeffrey did as instructed and sat, waiting for whatever this was to begin in earnest. Roger made a token offer of a beverage, and then dived straight in, reciting the high points of Jeffrey’s mundane legal career from a file on his otherwise immaculate desk, beginning with his grade point average and finishing with his last two major assignments.

  “That’s impressive. You really do your homework,” Jeffrey conceded when he’d finished.

  “Yes, we do. My company specializes in well-researched assignments, and we pride ourselves on having a stellar track record of satisfied clients. We don’t invite candidates for an in-person interview unless we’re already convinced they’re what the doctor ordered. Fortunately for us both, you fit the bill to a tee. At least on paper. But there’s a lot that a file doesn’t convey, which is why I’ve moved mountains to get you here and give you the once-over before I introduce you to the client – one of the top law firms in this city.”

  “Well, fire away. I’m a captive audience,” Jeffrey said with a slightly nervous smile.

  The grilling lasted an hour, and Jeffrey was surprised at how well-versed on the intricacies of international corporate and banking structuring Roger was, venturing into arcane areas normally the province of highly specialized attorneys, making a few mistakes Jeffrey was sure were deliberate to test his acumen. At the end, Roger sat back, seemingly satisfied, and then fixed Jeffrey with an intense gaze, the whites of his eyes almost glowing.

  “You probably have questions of your own, young man,” Roger invited in a more collegial tone than the rapid-fire questioning to
which Jeffrey had been subjected.

  “How did you hear about me?”

  Roger peered up at the ceiling and frowned. “The corporate world is a small one once you travel in exalted enough circles. Your reputation precedes you. You’ve done work for several clients who are known to me, and they gave you a glowing recommendation. I’m not at liberty to divulge which ones – confidentiality being my stock in trade – but suffice to say their input was impressive enough to warrant considering you when this opening came up.”

  “There have to be countless lawyers who specialize in this area.”

  “Ah. There are. But most are too old, or have their own practices, or have baggage my client would rather not deal with. As you’ll see this evening, the senior partner of the firm is somewhat of a character, and has very set opinions about what sorts of personnel he takes on. One of his criteria is age – he’s of the opinion that a man’s best years are between the age of thirty and fifty, so he won’t hire anyone over thirty-two. You’re twenty-nine. You’re already in charge of your own, admittedly small, staff. You’re single, so you don’t have two whining newborns and a wife berating you for staying late at the office. And you’re still hungry – I know it when I see it. It’s a given that you’re very smart. All the candidates are. But honestly, you’re the last interview, and in my opinion, the perfect fit.”

  “Fair enough. Who’s the law firm?”

  “Before we get too far down that road, I need you to sign a confidentiality agreement along with a boilerplate non-disclosure. Purely a formality, but an essential one.”

  Roger leaned forward, lifted his handset, and barked a terse instruction. Moments later another woman, this one a brunette in her thirties wearing slacks and a green silk blouse, appeared with a file and handed it to Roger before slipping out wordlessly.

  “Take as long as you need to look it over,” Roger said, pushing it toward Jeffrey.

  It was a standard blanket NDA, no surprises, and after giving it a careful perusal Jeffrey signed it and sat back expectantly.

  “My client is Garfield, Fairbanks, and Lereaux.”

  Jeffrey’s face didn’t betray his disappointment. He’d never heard of them.

  “They’re not a household name, but I can assure you that their client roster reads like the Forbes list. They’re a specialized firm that augments the in-house legal departments of some of the largest corporations in the country. Banks, manufacturers, pharmaceutical giants, conglomerates, you name it. As you might have intuited, money isn’t in scarce supply. Their support role in class action suits alone runs into the eight figures each year, as does their lobbying arm, and that’s not their largest area of expertise. It’s a relatively small group, but frankly, the pay can’t be beaten, and if you do well, within a short period of time you’ll be a seven-figure man.”

  Jeffrey swallowed, trying to remain calm at the mention of his future and undreamt-of levels of wealth in the same breath. “It sounds like a great opportunity.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year. Look, Jeffrey, I know your firm. It’s a good, solid outfit, but it’s a mill, like going to work at a factory. Tell me you don’t clock sixty to eighty billable hours per week. I know the drill. You’ve got no chance of making serious money there until you’re older than I am.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Of course it is. And this is your ticket out. Look, you seem like a decent chap, so I’ll lay this on the line. Whether Garfield takes you or one of the others is immaterial to me – I still get paid no matter who they hire. But you’ve impressed me the most, and if I recommend you, you’ll get the job. So I need to know that you’re onboard, and will give notice as soon as possible, and do whatever is required to move here within a matter of days. If you won’t, any of the others will, so this is your moment of truth. Figure out what you want, and if you have any reservations about this, tell me now, in this room. Because once you’re sitting across from Joseph Garfield, you’re a shoe-in, and I don’t want to waste my ammo bringing a non-starter to that table.”

  “I…frankly, this is extremely attractive. What you’ve described, running my own team, working with high-profile clients, being more than adequately rewarded…if I seem uncertain, it’s because I’m just taken aback by how fast all this is happening. I mean, we only first talked a day or so ago, and now you’re telling me I’m at the head of the line for a career-changer.”

  “Welcome to the game, Jeffrey. Don’t you think you’ve spent enough time in the bullpen? You can’t warm up for the rest of your life. Fate’s smiled on you. I’d grab this with both hands and never let go.”

  Jeffrey nodded. It was everything any young attorney could hope for. But in spite of all of that, something was making him uneasy. Probably the pace – they were moving at Mach ten, and Jeffrey was used to driving in the slow lane. “You make a compelling argument.”

  Roger smiled wolfishly. “That’s part of the gig, Jeffrey. Let’s not beat around the bush. You want this, or not?”

  Jeffrey paused, the conflicting emotions within him battling for supremacy, and then logic took over.

  “Of course I do. When do I meet my new boss?”

  THIRTEEN

  Dinner and a Date

  The driver took Jeffrey to the hotel Roger had booked for him – the Four Seasons in Georgetown. When he disembarked at the lobby entrance his sense of disbelief intensified at the sheer opulence. They were sparing no expense, and that feeling was underscored when the bellman opened his room door for him and gave him an orientation tour. Jeffrey tipped him ten dollars, reconsidering the five he was going to hand him, and when the man left Jeffrey shrugged his jacket off and plopped down on the bed, groping for the TV remote as he breathed the hotel’s rarified atmosphere, a hint of something exotic, perhaps jasmine, in the air.

  Dinner would be at the hotel’s premier restaurant at seven, with Roger and Joseph Garfield. If there was going to be anyone else there, Roger hadn’t told him, and he presumed if there were they wouldn’t matter for the purposes of his evaluation. The television news was filled with the latest atrocity in the Middle East, angry mobs chanting unintelligibly for the cameras as an American flag smoldered in the background, a professionally concerned newscaster trying to flog the slim details of a bombing into a half hour of interest.

  Jeffrey considered the whirlwind of unusual activity that had become his life over the last week, and wondered where this latest chapter would lead. Maybe it was time for a change. When he took all the emotion out of the decision, getting the position with Garfield would be the best thing that could ever happen to him, even if it meant suffering through some unpleasant Washington winters. As the minutes ticked away and his dinner grew near, he became more convinced that he’d made the right choice in telling Roger he wanted the job.

  Downstairs, he approached the restaurant maître d’ at exactly seven and was shown to a table in a secluded corner. Roger was already there, chatting with an older man dressed much like Jeffrey in a blazer and semi-casual slacks.

  “Jeffrey Rutherford, meet Joseph Garfield,” Roger said as they stood, and Garfield reached to shake Jeffrey’s hand with an iron grip. Jeffrey did a quick scan of Garfield’s face, the skin taut and smooth, a network of fine wrinkles in all the right places, his complexion glowing with prosperity, his gaze clear and hawk-like, his steel-gray eyes those of a predator at the top of the food chain.

  Garfield returned the scrutiny, and after an uncomfortable few seconds he offered a professional grin, the expression as practiced and genuine as a politician’s. He released Jeffrey’s hand, as though he’d taken Jeffrey’s measure through some sort of osmosis, and then motioned with his head at the table, where a bottle of Rioja waited on the white linen tablecloth, two Riedel goblets filled with several ruby inches, the third still empty, awaiting Jeffrey’s arrival.

  Jeffrey sat, taking in Garfield’s lean jaw line, not an ounce of the soft-living flab that many atto
rneys sported as they approached the ends of their careers. Quite the opposite; Garfield seemed to project vitality and a glow almost like an aura, as if his presence had altered the physics of the atmosphere around him, imbuing it with confident energy by virtue of his moving effortlessly through it.

  “A pleasure,” Garfield said easily, his voice modulated, the slightest trace of a southern accent playing at the edges of the syllables. “Thank you for agreeing to fly out to meet with us. Roger here assures me it was time well spent.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Garfield.”

  “I grilled him most of the afternoon, and he still showed up for dinner, so you have to give him that,” Roger said, picking up the bottle and pouring Jeffrey a generous measure. “This is excellent. I hope you like reds. One of Spain’s best,” he explained.

  Jeffrey raised the glass to his nose, savoring the bouquet before holding it out in a toast. “Again, thanks for the hospitality.”

  Roger and Garfield clinked their glasses against his and took appreciative swallows, and then returned their attention to Jeffrey, who suddenly felt like something on a laboratory slide. Garfield began speaking quietly, the voice of a man accustomed to his audience paying attention to what he was saying, and described the opening Jeffrey was interviewing for, stressing the attributes he prized the most, which mirrored what Roger had already told him. The entire speech took five minutes and was as well-crafted as a Shakespearian sonnet, building at the end to the point where Jeffrey almost felt as though he should applaud.

  The questioning followed. Roger sat quietly, contributing as much as a stuffed boar head while Garfield expertly raked Jeffrey over the coals, probing every aspect of his professional and private life. The interrogation was civilized but laser-focused, and after a half hour of it, interrupted only by ordering their meals, Jeffrey felt like he’d been cross-examined by an A-team prosecutor, and was clearly guilty as charged – only of what, he had no idea. Then, as abruptly and intensely as it had begun, it stopped, and Garfield returned to making small talk with Roger, seemingly having made a decision, and now focused on extracting maximum enjoyment from his filet, which he attacked with the gusto of a shipwrecked sailor.