Vertical Run

by Joseph Garber

  Bernie’s office decor exhibited only two eccentricities: his books and his coffee maker. The books were a decade and a half’s compilation of a genre that Dave thought of as “executive faith healing”—everything from In Search of Excellence to Reengineering the Corporation. Senterex’s chief executive could not resist a volume that promised to reveal heretofore unknown secrets of improving managerial effectiveness. He bought them all, read them all, believed them all — at least until a new one came along.

  Dave ran his finger along their jackets and smiled at the memories they brought.

  Then there was Bernie’s coffee maker. That too made Dave smile. Somewhere along the line, probably under the influence of one of his California-based motivational gurus, Bernie had decided that Senterex’s executive secretaries should not be required to perform coffee duties. No longer would visitors to the executive suite be politely met by a gracious secretary who offered them their choice of coffee, tea, or cocoa. Rather it would become the responsibility of each executive to have his or her own coffee maker, supply of tea bags, and cache of hot chocolate.

  No one could fathom why Bernie thought it important that executives drawing six-figure salaries should waste their time fumbling with pots, filters, and grounds, but he was adamant about it. The forty-fifth floor kitchenette was converted to a photocopier room, and every executive office was issued a Toshiba coffee maker.

  The results were a catastrophe: stained carpets, coffee grounds splattered on critical documents, expensive credenzas bereft of their glossy finishes — to say nothing of embarrassed visitors who, choking at the wretchedness of the stuff they were served, surreptitiously emptied their cups into potted plants.

  After a month of mounting disaster, the secretarial staff rebelled. They started coming in early, sneaking into their bosses’ offices, and making the coffee themselves. Shortly peace was restored to the forty-fifth floor, and everyone, from Bernie downward, seemed to have gotten what they wanted.

  * * *

  Bernie, forgetful in such matters and more reliant on his secretary than he was willing to admit, seemed to have left his coffee machine on again. Dave flicked the off switch. “You’re welcome, Bernie,” he muttered.

  The pot was half-full of Bernie’s personal blend, the envy of everyone on the floor. Dave poured himself a cup, sipped, and smiled. Bernie asserted that San Francisco was the only American city in which every business prides itself on offering guests a great-tasting brew. Consequently, he arranged for a special San Francisco blend — arabica, Kona, and something else — to be air-freighted to Senterex monthly. But he refused to disclose the name of the source from which he purchased it, or to make the beans available to any other Senterex executives. “I want,” Bernie smirked, “people should remember the best cup of coffee in New York came from Bernie Levy. That way, maybe they come back to have another cup and we do some business. If you want to do the same, you go find your own coffee.”

  Bernie. He’s got an angle on everything. The last great deal maker.

  Dave savored the coffee. It was so absolutely perfect. He wondered if he could find the name of the supplier somewhere in Bernie’s files.

  Gotten your priorities wrong there, pal. If you’re going to check Bernie’s files, you should be looking for something else.

  Dave placed the coffee cup down carefully on one of Bernie’s brass coasters. He spun the chair around so that he was facing Bernie’s credenza, and jimmied open its lock.

  The top drawer contained the personal and the confidential files of Senterex’s chairman — a double row of olive drab Pendaflex Esselte file folders, each bearing a colored tab identifying its contents. Yellow tabs for Board meeting minutes. Green tabs marking the charities nearest to Bernie’s heart: Salvation Army, Children’s Hospital, United Jewish Appeal, Lighthouse for the Blind, ASPCA. Clear tabs on eight folders bearing the name of each Senterex operating division. One blue tab reading “Lockyear Laboratories.” Orange tabs for business projections and forecasts. Purple for the investment bankers’ analyses of potential acquisition targets. A dozen red-tabbed folders bearing the names of each of Senterex’s most senior executives.

  Dave drew out the one with his name.

  It was surprisingly thin. It began with, of all things, a photocopy of his original Senterex employment application. The photograph stapled to it showed an eager young man in a two-dollar haircut. The application was followed by a handful of memos to and from the Personnel Department back before its name had been changed to “Human Resources.” They dealt with promotions, pay raises, and changes in assignment. There were some insurance forms, an appraisal or two from people who had supervised him in his early days at Senterex, and copies of the various agreements and commitments he had signed as he moved up the corporate ladder. Toward the very end of the file he found some correspondence between Senterex’s chief counsel and the Securities and Exchange Commission. As soon as Dave had been made an officer of the company, any trades he might make in its stock became a subject of interest to that agency.

  The last piece of paper in the folder was a letter on FBI stationery.

  Dave’s stomach did a somersault.

  “Dear Mr. Levy,” it read, “In reference Mr. David P. Elliot, an individual known to you and in your employ, this will apprise you that this office has been charged with conducting a background investigation of the aforenamed individual, with said investigation being deemed necessary and appropriate under the conditions provided for by the Defense Supplier and Contractor Act of 1953, as amended, and pertaining to the issuance of security clearances to executives and directors of corporations engaged in business operations involving classified, restricted, privileged and/or other secure affairs. The requester of said investigation has directed the undersigned to coordinate with you as relates to specifics to be discussed at your earliest convenience. Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated.”

  Uh-oh.

  Defense Supplier and Contractor Act? But Senterex didn’t do any defense work. In fact, it didn’t do any government work at all.

  Or does it?

  Dave read the letter over twice. It really didn’t say much.

  What about the date?

  Three days ago. The letter was dated just three days ago. Now what the devil did that mean? And why—why, why, why—after all of these years was someone trying to renew security clearance that had been canceled the day he was discharged from the Army?

  Worse yet …

  Worse yet, unless the letter was a forgery, Dave was the subject of a federal investigation. And Ransome was telling everyone that he was a federal officer.

  Suppose Doc Sandberg was right: Ransome really is a Fed!

  That didn’t make sense. The government doesn’t put out contracts on innocent civilians. It doesn’t dispatch teams of hard case hitmen to assassinate forty-seven year old businessmen. That was movie stuff, pulp fiction, conspiracy theory. Oliver Stone, Geraldo Rivera, Rush Limbaugh.

  There have been allegations — Lee Harvey Oswald, Jack Ruby, Bill Casey, Martha Mitchell …

  Only the lunatic fringe made those kinds of claims. Besides, even if the conspiracy buffs were right, the people who had been assassinated were killed for a reason. They knew something. They were involved in something. They had secrets.

  What have you seen, what have you heard, what do you know?

  Nothing. Dave had no secrets — no state secrets. There wasn’t …

  Those court-martials were secret. They sealed the records. They made you sign a promise never to disclose what happened.

  No, no, no. That was too long ago. Besides, Dave wasn’t the only person who knew. There had been other witnesses. And everyone, everyone, who had been involved in the trials knew — board members, prosecutors, defenders, steno clerks. It was crazy even to think that …

  Crazy.

  He took one more look at the FBI letter. Was it real? Was it a forgery? Was there some way to find out why it had been sent?


  He lifted Bernie’s telephone and tapped the number printed beneath the name of the man who had signed the thing. The phone was answered on the first ring. “You have reached the Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York City. Our office hours are 8:30 A.M. to 5:30 P.M. If you know the extension of the person you are trying to reach, please enter it now. If you do not, please touch the star key now.”

  Dave hated these damned robotized telephone systems. He punched the star key. “If you wish to leave a message for the switchboard attendant, please touch the pound key now. If you wish to access the voice mail system, please touch the ‘0’ key now.”

  He hit “0.”

  “Please enter the last name of the individual whose voice mailbox you wish to reach, using the keypad on your telephone. For the letter ‘Q,’ please substitute ‘0.’ ”

  Dave looked at the signature on the letter. He pecked in the name.

  “No one with the name you have entered is accessible through this voice mail system. If you have mis-entered the name or wish to try again, please touch the star key now.”

  He hung up.

  Maybe the man who sent the letter wasn’t with the FBI. Maybe he was, but his name hadn’t been entered in the goddamned telephone system’s database. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Dave didn’t know. He had no answers. There were no answers anywhere.

  Or were there?

  He needed to think. There was something that he had forgotten or put out of his mind. It was the key to what was going on. But first …

  He studied the files in Bernie’s credenza. Personnel, Charities, Forecasts, Board Meetings, Acquisition Candidates, Division Operations. One of them might hold a clue. He reached for the first in the drawer. As he did, Bernie backed into the room.

  Bernie entered not from his secretary’s foyer, but rather from a door to the west. It connected his office with the Senterex corporate boardroom. As he walked backward, he spoke to somebody who was still in the boardroom. “… Don’t you know it?”

  Dave jumped, gasped, was certain that his heart had stopped.

  Bernie continued, “Wait a minute. That’s yours, isn’t it, the portfolio back there?” He stepped back into the boardroom.

  Dave hurled himself out of Bernie’s chair, scrambling for the closet. It was, like the closet in his own office, a spacious walk-in. Bernie used it to store a miscellany of meeting supplies — oversized easel pads, marking pens, tape, and a half dozen tripod-mounted easel stands. Senterex’s chairman was incapable of holding a business meeting without writing something on an easel.

  Dave flattened himself against the far wall, pulling the door almost but not quite closed.

  Bernie came back into the office. “… like a knife to my heart, that’s what it is.”

  Another voice answered, “You’re not alone. Olivia and I are quite fond of David.”

  Dave knew the voice. Its distinctive New England twang belonged to Scott C. Thatcher, a member of Senterex’s Board of Directors, chief executive of his own company, and one of Dave’s few intimate friends.

  “So maybe it will all work out in the end,” Bernie said. “This Ransome, he’s no schmuck.”

  “Emmm.” Dave could picture Thatcher. He’d be stroking his bushy, Mark Twain moustache or running his fingers through his unruly, long white hair. “Bernard, on the subject of your Mr. Ransome, I wonder if you have been a little less than forthcoming.”

  Go out. Go out there right now. Thatcher will believe you. He’s the only person in the world who will.

  “Me? What do you mean?”

  “Today is not the first time I have encountered the man. I do not forget faces. I have seen him before, and I have seen him in this building.”

  Now. Do it now. Thatcher will be on your side.

  “Uh …”

  “In the reception room some four or five weeks ago, I should say. He was leaving as I was entering. Indeed, I distinctly remember asking you about him.”

  Just walk out of the closet, pal. “Hi, Scotty! Boy, am I glad to see you!”

  He couldn’t. It would draw Thatcher into the thing. It would put Thatcher’s life in as much jeopardy as his own.

  Idiot! Thatcher is the CEO of the second largest computer company in the world. They put his picture on the cover of Forbes, Fortune, Business Week. No one is going to mess with him.

  “Nonsense. Mishegaas.”

  “Not at all. He gave me an uncommonly arrogant look. I remarked upon it to you. You replied that he was an executive of a company you planned to acquire. Given the man’s demeanor, I thought your answer improbable.”

  Dave put his hand on the closet’s doorknob.

  Do it! Do it!

  “Not me. It’s something with somebody else, you’re remembering.”

  “Bernard, though aged and feeble and far beyond the springtime of my buoyant youth, I am not yet senile. That man was here, and you were his host.”

  Dave turned the knob slowly, gently pushing at the door.

  “Bernie Levy does not lie.”

  “A misstatement. Better put, one would say, ‘Bernard Levy rarely lies because he knows himself to be frightfully inept at it.’ ”

  “Scotty, my friend …”

  Through the widening crack Dave saw Bernie spread his hands in a false gesture of openness.

  “We are friends, Bernard, and have been for forty years and more. I am a member of your Board, and you a member of mine. There is a trust between us. If it happens that there is more to this problem with David than you are willing to disclose, then I must respect that — as I must assume that your reasons are good.”

  It’s now or never, pal.

  Dave pressed his palm against the door. The radio in his pocket hissed awake. Thatcher said, “If you need a hand, you can call me at any time.” Dave pushed. Bernie said, “It’s tougher than you know.” Ransome’s voice came over the radio, calling, “Mr. Elliott? Do you copy?” Thatcher said, “Just bear in mind that David is as much my friend as you are.” Ransome said, “I have authority to offer you a mutually acceptable compromise solution, Mr. Elliot.” Dave took his hand from the door. Bernie said, “He’s like a son to me.” Thatcher replied, “I’ll say good night, then. Olivia’s expecting me home.” Ransome said, “Mr. Elliot, I truly would appreciate your answering me.” Bernie said, “Good night.” Dave’s voice said, “Forget it, turkey. By now you’ve got your tracers and your triangulation equipment set up all over the building, right, Ransome? So tell them to take a fix on me. Tell them to find what floor I’m on. Guess what, buddy, I’m not on any floor. I’m outside, and I’m not coming back. Hey, Ransome, you can run and run as fast as you can, but you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!” Ransome’s voice was flat as ice, and as cold. “Mr. Elliot, this is unacceptably immature behavior.” Bernie spoke from near the door, “You’ll be at the audit committee meeting next week?” A second voice, Partridge’s voice, came over the radio. “He’s telling the truth. He’s somewhere on the Upper West Side.” Thatcher, now outside Bernie’s office, answered, “Sorry. I’ve got to be in Singapore. An issue with our largest supplier.”

  Somewhere in Manhattan, Marge Cohen switched off a tape recorder.

  Partridge whispered, “He’s gone. We’re all dead men.”

  Dave stood motionless, turning that last remark over in his mind.

  5

  He stepped out of the closet, his pistol held lightly at waist level. “If you move, Bernie, I’ll shoot you.” He tried to sound like he meant it.

  Bernie was sitting at his desk, shuffling through papers. He looked up with an expression of desolate weariness on his face. “Hello, Davy. It’s good to see you.” He sounded like a man who was a million years old.

  “Bernie, I want you to keep your hands on the desk. I don’t want you pulling another gun …”

  “No more guns.” Bernie gave him the ghost of a smile.

  “… or a can of Mace.”

  Bernie nodded. “You know about that?”

  �
�I know.” Dave walked closer. “I know some other things too. But I want to know more.”

  Bernie’s face was a model of sadness. He turned his hands palms-down on the desk. When he spoke, Dave sensed that his words were meant more for himself than for anyone else. “Yeah. So go figure. You spend all of your life trying to be a mensch, you know, a real mensch. Work hard, play fair, tell the truth, do the right thing, be a patriot. When it’s all over, you know what? I’ll tell you what. To them you’re still nothing but a lousy little Jew. Here, Jew, do this. Here, Jew, do that. Thanks, you’re a good American. For a Jew, that is.”

  He shook his head slowly, sadly, all the weight of the world on his shoulders. “They gave me the Silver Star. Me. Bernie Levy. Did you know that, Davy?”

  Dave replied with such gentleness as he could muster, “No, Bernie, I didn’t.”

  “Scotty, he got one. Me, I got one too. Damnedest thing you ever saw. Two crazy soldiers, completely fartootst, Lieutenant Thatcher and Corporal Levy. Charged a North Korean tank, is what we did. Him with a .45 and a hand grenade, me with an M-1 rifle. Totally insane, I’m telling you. Dead is what we should have been. Instead we both get the Silver Star. MacArthur, he’s the one who pinned them on. Oh, but you should have seen it, Davy, you should have seen it. Scotty is lying in bed with a shot-up leg. Bernie Levy is standing next to him. The old man comes in. There’s a photographer from Life magazine taking pictures. I tell you, it was some moment, Davy, maybe the best I ever had. And so MacArthur starts to pin on the medal, and you know what? Scotty, he’s nothing but a lowly lieutenant, Scotty starts chewing out the general. The general! Can you believe? It was wonderful. It was a miracle. No one has ever seen anything like it. I was — I was in awe. Did he ever tell you about that, Scotty, I mean?”

  Dave shook his head.

  “Amazed. Bernie Levy was amazed. You see, Scotty’s father, he was this doctor on MacArthur’s staff. In Japan, I mean, just after the war. He and this Russian and this OSS guy are investigating the war crimes. So they find out something and they bring it to the general and the general says hush it up. But they say no way and so the general fires everyone home and gets himself a new doctor. So — you gotta picture this — so five or six years later, there is this nothing lieutenant lying in his bed with the most important general in the world — in the world! — pinning the Silver Star on his pajamas, and the photographer is taking pictures, and all of a sudden the lieutenant is telling off the general for firing his father. Oh, Davy, you should have seen it. Such chutzpah! Bernie Levy has never seen its like!”