That baby could go Mach 0.89, and even when it was up against the barber pole-cruising at max speed-it was so solidly built that nothing ever squeaked or rattled. It had a range of almost seven thousand miles, partly because it was so light. The airframe was made of lightweight improved aluminum alloy, and the engine cowlings and all the control surfaces, the rudders and ailerons and elevator, were made out of advanced composites.
I learned to fly when I was in college, wanted to be a pilot but was disqualified because my vision wasn't totally perfect. But at least I got to work with planes, and when I'm a passenger on a well-built plane, I'm always watching and listening, noticing things most people don't.
Once we started our ascent-we'd be cruising at forty-five thousand feet, I knew, well above commercial airline traffic-I turned back to my laptop and began studying the photos. Which was when something caught my attention. I enlarged the photo to the full size of my computer screen, then zoomed in on one small area of the picture. A piece of the plane's wing was lying on the asphalt. The inboard flap, I could tell right away.
I zoomed in still closer. I could see where the aluminum hinge had ripped out. It was pretty dramatic looking, and sort of surprising, too.
The wings and the wing flaps on the Eurospatiale E-336 were made out of composite materials, just like our own SkyCruiser. But the hinges that attach the flaps to the wings are made of a high-grade 7075 aluminum.
And somehow those aluminum hinges had just ripped clean off the wing flap. How, I had no idea. I needed to study the pictures some more. Maybe do some more research.
My Scotch arrived, in a cut-glass crystal tumbler on a silver tray, with a dish of warm mixed nuts under a linen napkin. Next to it was a small envelope.
A bill? The Hammond private jet didn't exactly have a cash bar. So what could it be?
The envelope was made from very thick, expensive-looking stock. It was blank on the outside. Inside was a folded note, on a matching sheet of paper.
I recognized the handwriting at once. It said, simply:
Landry-
Please come to the executive lounge as soon as you get this. BE SUBTLE.
– A
I closed my laptop and got right up.
11
The inner sanctum-the CEO's private lounge-was even more opulent than the main salon.
If I'd just come from an English gentleman's club, then this was the club's private library. The walls here were paneled in a rich, antique wood, though I knew they had to be veneers, since real wainscoting would be too heavy. The lighting was indirect, from tiny ceiling pinpoints trained against the paneling, and gave the cabin an amber glow. The antique carpets were even finer. There were cabinets that looked like family heirlooms (though not my family, of course, whose oldest piece of furniture had been Dad's Barcalounger). A flat-screen TV hung on one wall, tuned to CNBC. A steel-clad galley kitchen with an espresso machine. A couple of overstuffed couches, upholstered in an off-white brocade.
And sunk down in the middle of one of the couches, facing the door, was Ali. She was reading a folder, but she put it down when I entered.
"Landry."
"There you are," I said, as casually as I could manage, walking up to her. "A private summons, huh? And I thought you'd forgotten who I was."
"I'm so sorry about that. I really am. It's just really important for us to be discreet." She got up off the sofa and put her arms around me. She had to stand on tiptoes to do it. "Hey, I've missed you."
She spoke with a slight Southern twang, the residue of her years living in Fort Benning, Georgia, and Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
"Me, too." If I was perplexed before, by this time I was even more confused. She looked great, of course. Even more beautiful, which I found disconcerting. Ali was petite and slender-people tended to call her "pert" or "perky" or "spunky," words she hated, because she thought they were all basically synonyms for "short." When we were going out, she wore her hair short. Now it was long and flowing, down to her shoulders, and looked like she spent a lot of money getting it cut in some fancy salon. She'd done something to her eyebrows, too, made them sort of arched. She wore glossy lipstick with lip liner. The old Ali didn't wear much makeup; she didn't need it. She was beautiful, but you'd never call her stylish. She was like a tomboy who'd grown up. The new Ali was willowy, elegant, polished.
I liked the old Ali better, even if the new one was more striking.
"You look good," I said.
"Thanks. I like your jacket."
"You got it for me."
"I remember."
"It's the only decent blazer I own."
"No argument there. You did have the worst clothes."
"I haven't changed."
"That doesn't surprise me, Landry. You never liked change."
"That hasn't changed either," I said.
It's time," I said, clicking on the remote.
Sunday nights at nine; we never missed it. My favorite TV show. The Dog Shrink: an Australian canine therapist who specialized in helping troubled dogs, invariably with a happy ending.
This week's show was about a vicious Presa Canario/Cane Corso/pit bull mix owned by a frail-looking old lady. The dog was highly territorial and fiercely protective and was about to be put down after horribly mauling a neighbor boy.
The Dog Shrink called Missy-that was the dog's name-a "red-zone dog" and said, "Missy was not born a killer. Monsters are made, not born. Her aggressive behavior was created by her caretakers. I'm sure Missy was abused at an early age."
Ali lay on the couch doing paperwork, manila folders arrayed on the old steamer trunk that served as my coffee table. "I always wanted a dog," she said. "But my dad wouldn't allow it. He liked everything to be 'trig,' as he called it. Totally clean and neat and squared away. He said dog hairs get all over everything, and you never ever get them out."
She was an Army brat: Her dad had been a drill instructor, then a master sergeant. My father had been a Marine, so we had that military-family thing in common, too. She used to tell me all about her dad, how she loved shining his shoes and polishing his belt buckle and ironing his handkerchiefs and his uniform and all that. How proud she was of him. And yet how distant he was. If you're not an Army brat, she once told me, you'll never really understand. She liked to talk all about her background, her childhood, her brothers, her parents' lousy marriage. I never talked about that stuff at all.
"Don't forget the poop," I said.
"How come you don't have a dog, if you love dogs so much?"
"I'd consider it if they'd take turns picking up my poop."
"Seriously."
"It's a real commitment."
"Right. They just take and take and take, don't they?"
I shrugged, admiring her dry sarcasm but not taking the bait. "Someday I'll get one."
"Did you have a dog, growing up?"
I shook my head. "My dad didn't like them."
"Why not?"
"Who knows. Probably because dogs didn't like him. They're really good judges of character."
"And what did they see in him?"
"Remember the dad on The Brady Bunch?"
"Vaguely. What about him?"
"Well, my dad was kinda the opposite."
On the TV, the Dog Shrink said, "Missy is a very protective dog. Anytime she thinks her owner is being threatened, she'll attack." There was scary footage of Missy frothing and baring her fangs.
The Dog Shrink said, "Missy just needed to understand that not everyone is a threat to her owner. She had to learn not to be so protective. And do you know what her secret was-the real secret of her aggressiveness?" He stroked the dog under her chin. "She was frightened! That's what made her overcompensate. That's what made her so aggressive. So I had to show her there was no reason to be so afraid."
Cut to Missy after six weeks of intensive dog therapy, lying on her back, puppylike, licking the Dog Shrink's hand. "Now we see her in a state of calm submission," said the Dog Shrink.
"Yeah," I said. "Look at that dog the wrong way, and I bet she still rips your throat out."
Ali laughed.
"Let me tell you something. Nobody ever really changes."
She laughed again, gave my face a playful slap. "Landry, no one makes me laugh the way you do."
She thought I was kidding.
What's going on?" I said. "You don't want these guys to figure out we used to be involved, is that it?"
"Yes."
"But so what?"
"Sit down, Landry. We need to talk."
"Words a guy never wants to hear."
She didn't seem to be in a lighthearted mood, though. She didn't laugh the way she normally might have.
"It's important," she said.
I sat next to her on the couch.
"How long have you been working for Cheryl Tobin?" I said.
"Since about a month after she started. So, almost three months."
"How'd that happen? I thought you were in HR."
"Only we call it People now," she said. "Cheryl heard about how I brought in this fancy new information-systems program to keep track of payroll and benefits, and she invited me to her office to talk. We just hit it off. She asked me to join the Office of the Chief Executive Officer. As her Executive Assistant in charge of Internal Governance, Internal Audit, and Ethics."
I could understand why Cheryl Tobin would have been impressed by Ali. She was not just smart but whip-smart, Jeopardy!-contestant-smart. She had what my dad used to call a "smart mouth," only when it came from him, it was never a compliment. She was quick-witted; her mind cycled a lot faster than most. She always said that came from growing up the only girl in a family with four brothers: she learned to talk fast and to the point in order to get what she wanted. As a guy who tends to be better at listening than at speaking, I always admired her ability to express herself at such lightning speed. If I'd been another kind of guy, we could have had the sort of verbal-sparring relationship that Spencer Tracy had with Katharine Hepburn. Instead, it was more like Katharine Hepburn doing a one-woman stage show.
"Last time I checked, we already have an Office of Internal Governance." I was never sure what the Office of Internal Governance did exactly-I imagined it as sort of like Internal Affairs in a police department. Checking up on the company to make sure all the procedures are followed, maybe.
"Sure. And an Office of Internal Audit. But she wanted me to directly oversee them."
"Meaning she didn't trust them to do their job right without supervision."
"You said it, not me."
I nodded. She smelled great. She always smelled great. At least her perfume hadn't changed-something by Clinique, I remembered. I'm not a guy who remembers the names of perfumes, but I once went out with a woman briefly who smelled just like Ali. It messed with my head, and I'd asked her what it was called. Then I asked her to stop using it. That pretty much ended that relationship.
"Where's your boss?" I said.
She pointed at a set of leather-covered double doors a few feet away. Cheryl's private office, I assumed. "On a call."
"Can she hear us?"
Ali shook her head.
The door to the outside corridor opened, and a flight attendant peered in, a beautiful Asian woman. "May I get you or your guest anything, Ms. Hillman?"
"Landry?" Ali said.
I shook my head.
"We're fine, Ming," she said. "Thank you." Ming nodded and shut the door.
"You like working for Cheryl?"
"I do."
"Would you tell me if you didn't?"
"Landry," she said. She tipped her head to one side, an expression I knew well, which meant: How can you even ask?
Ali never lied to me. I don't think she even knew how to be less than honest. Even if it risked offending me or hurting my feelings. Which was another thing I liked about her. "Sorry."
"If I didn't like it, I wouldn't do it," she said. "Cheryl's one of the most impressive women I've ever met. One of the most impressive people I've ever met. I think she's amazing."
I nodded. I wasn't going to ask her at that point if Cheryl was really as much of a bitch as everyone said. Probably wasn't the best time.
"And yes, I know how all these guys talk about her." She waved in the general direction of the main salon. "You think she doesn't know?"
"It's just grumbling," I said. "They're probably freaked out by having a woman running the show for the first time. Plus, they're nervous they'll get canned, too."
She lowered her voice, leaned in closer to me. "What makes you think she has that power?"
"She's the CEO."
"The board of directors won't let her fire any more senior or executive vice presidents without consulting them. And believe me, all these guys know that."
"You're kidding."
"After her first round of management changes, riots almost broke out on the thirty-third floor. Hank Bodine went to one of his buddies on the board and had a little talk, and the board met in emergency session to limit her hiring-and-firing authority. It's practically unprecedented. And it's outrageous."
"If Bodine has so many buddies on the board, why didn't they make him CEO instead of Cheryl?"
She shrugged. "You can bet he wonders the same thing. Maybe he didn't have enough supporters on the board. Maybe they thought he'd be too much of a bully-a bull in a china shop. Or maybe they wanted to bring in someone new, an outsider, to try to clean up the mess here. But whatever the reason, it wasn't a unanimous vote, I know that. Plus, they all know how valuable Bodine is to Hammond, and they don't want to lose him. Which was a real risk when they passed him over. So a fair number of board members are watching closely to see if she screws up. And if and when she does, they'll get rid of her, believe me."
"Does any of this have to do with why I'm here? Why am I here?"
"Well, Mike Zorn said no one knows more about the SkyCruiser than you. He said you're-how'd he put it?-a 'diamond in the rough.'"
Just then I was feeling more like a golf ball in the rough. "But he didn't recommend me as his stand-in, did he?"
Ali hesitated. "He did say you might be a little…junior."
"Hank Bodine was convinced that Cheryl put me on the list herself," I said. "She didn't, did she?"
"No, of course not," said a voice from behind us. The leather-clad double doors had opened, and Cheryl Tobin emerged. "I'd never even heard your name before. But Alison Hillman tells me you can be trusted, and I hope she's right."
12
She extended a hand. I stood and shook it. Her handshake was excessively firm, her hand icy cold.
"Cheryl Tobin," she said. She didn't smile.
"Nice to meet you. Jake Landry."
I'd never seen her up close. She was better-looking from a distance. Up close, she seemed all artifice. Her face was smooth and un-lined, but unnaturally so, as if she'd had a lot of roadwork-Botox or plastic surgery. Her makeup was a little too thick, masklike, and it cracked around her eyes. She gave me a steady, appraising look. "Alison tells me good things about you."
"All lies," I said.
"Oh, Alison knows better than to lie to me. Sit, please."
I sat down, more obedient than my golden retriever. She took a seat on the couch facing us, and said to Ali, "That was Hamilton Wender."
"And?" Ali said.
Cheryl lifted her head. "We'll talk." Then she turned to me. "I'll get right to the point. I'm sure you read my e-mail."
"Which one?"
She widened her eyes a bit. She was probably trying to raise her eyebrows, too, but Botox had frozen her forehead. "This morning."
"Oh, that. About the ethics. Yeah, it sounded nice."
"Sounded nice," she echoed, her voice as frosty as her handshake. You could almost see the icicles hanging down from her words. "Hmph."
"I always thought that Enron had the finest code of ethics I ever heard," I said, and immediate
ly wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
She looked at me for a few seconds as if she wanted to scratch my eyes out. Then she smiled with her mouth, though not the rest of her face. "Quite the brownnoser, I see."
"Not working, huh?"
"Not exactly."
I shrugged. "I guess that's the advantage to being a low-level flunky. I'm not a member of the team. You know what they say: The nail that sticks up gets hammered down."
"Ah. So you don't stick up. That way you can say whatever you want. Even when you're face-to-face with the CEO."
"Something like that."
She turned to look at Ali. "You didn't tell me what a charmer he is, Alison."
Ali rolled her eyes, and said to me warningly, "Landry."
Cheryl leaned forward and fixed me with an intense stare. "What I'm about to tell you, Jake, is not to be repeated."
"Okay."
"Absolutely no one must know what I'm about to tell you. Is that clear?"
I nodded.
"I have your word on this?"
"Yes." What next: a pinkie swear, maybe?
"Alison assured me you could be trusted, and I trust her judgment. A few months ago I hired a D.C. law firm, Craigie Blythe, to conduct an internal corporate investigation into Hammond Aerospace."
I nodded again. I didn't want her to know that I'd already overheard Bodine telling Bross about it. Or that Zoл's friend in Corporate Security had revealed how they'd been going through the e-mails of a few top officers in the company. I couldn't help thinking, though: For a brand-new CEO to launch an investigation of her own company-that was almost unheard of. No wonder everyone hated her.
"Do you remember the trouble that Boeing got into a few years ago with the Pentagon acquisitions office?"
"Sure." That was a huge scandal. Boeing's CFO had offered a high-paying job to the head of the Air Force acquisitions office if she'd throw a big tanker deal their way. The woman they'd co-opted, or bribed, or whatever you want to call it-everyone called her "the Dragon Lady"-had power over billions of dollars in government defense contracts. She decided which planes and helicopters and satellites and such the Air Force would buy. "Didn't he go to prison?"
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