Seven Shoes

by Mark Davis

  “So?”

  “Someone messed with you. Someone discovered what you were doing and alerted the Wolves. That someone did it to cover tracks and mess with our investigation. The same someone who killed Everett.”

  “So?”

  “We have an enemy in common. And I bet it is the same person who is behind Freyja. Help us find Freyja and we’ll fuck her for you.”

  ELEVEN

  Elizabeth watched and waited.

  She had asked for a change in hotel rooms, for a room with a western view.

  As the line of sunlight sank across her new room, she rested on the bed in a long T-shirt, alert for any sign of the Edge. But it wasn’t there. No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t making itself known.

  Elizabeth kept the bottle of benzodiazepine on her bedside table and left the bathroom light on. But all she did was sleep that night, and rather soundly at that.

  Before breakfast, she went for a run along a river trail that led into forest that was surprisingly dense and wild to be so close to the city center. The morning air had a hint of coming chill, and the white noise of water over rock was a comfort as she jogged along the river.

  Elizabeth felt great. But she knew better than to assume the Edge had left her. No. It was still there, somewhere, a sly creature, biding its time, almost as if it wanted her to relax and believe it was gone for good so it could catch her cold.

  ___________

  Thor walked into his office, rocking back and forth like a wobbling top. He eased himself into his ergonomic, black carbon office chair and made a sound of relief. The desk and shelves behind him were full of nerd collectables from movies, parts of old machines, an Alan Turing bobble doll.

  “My knees,” he said. “The doctor tells me I am either going to have to lose weight or I am going to have to get a pair of new knees.”

  Thor leaned back and smiled.

  “I think it will have to be the knees.”

  “You’re entirely too young to be facing such an issue,” Elizabeth said.

  “I forget that you went to medical school,” Thor said. “I will manage, thank you very much.”

  “Sorry,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve also got a master’s degree in busybody. But I am grateful you’ve set up some time just for me.”

  “Why did you not want to see it with Nasrin?”

  “It helps to experience something like this alone, without distraction,” she said.

  Elizabeth understood why Thor would be confused. His focus on technology was total. Once Thor began to scan code, he would be oblivious to distraction, no matter how many people were holding conversations around him. Not so for Elizabeth. It helped her to have solitude to read people, whether one-on-one, or as she would today, on a computer screen.

  “It’s all set up in the office to our left,” he said. “The first one is loaded. You’ll forgive me if I don’t escort you.”

  Elizabeth thanked him. The office next to Thor’s was spare, with an identical ergonomic chair of black carbon webbing.

  She closed the door, turned off the office lights, sat down and touched a key to awaken the computer. A folder entitled ‘Kenneth Woods’ occupied a central place. Elizabeth clicked it open and started the video file.

  ___________

  At 53, Ken Woods had had a lithe, athletic frame, a long and lean face, expressive eyes under eyebrows that arched into shaggy, black chevrons. He had not shaved in days, his chin speckled with tufts of salt-and-pepper. He sported a golf shirt, blue jeans and a wry expression. Behind him, wooden banana-shaped boats plied a turquoise sea beyond a strip of white sand and dwarf palms.

  “Howdy, you there. Whoever you are. This is my testament, the story of who I am and how I came to be at this, impasse, and why I need to move forward to the next level. You were probably wondering why. I am here to tell you why. If I go through with it, this will be record enough. If I chicken out, no one will see this or know what it is about if they do. So here goes.

  “The particulars. Good family, daddy a municipal engineer, mom a teacher. Geology degree at Texas A&M University, MBA from Harvard. Married to Jane, née Jane Hughes, for 28 years until our divorce. No children, just didn’t happen for us though, Lord knows, we tried. Also married during that same period to my only employer, XRO Energy, in Houston, Texas, with some postings in the UAE, the Philippines, Brazil and Brussels. Became vice president for safety, health, security and the environment at age forty-eight. Big job. Paid 900k a year, with stock options that had made me a millionaire many times over. Officer rank. Brass. Got to lunch once a week in the small dining room with the big boys.”

  Ken Woods took a sip from a cocktail glass and winced.

  “Great life. And now I am about to throw it all away.” He smiled. “Literally, if I go through with it. And I am grateful to the good goddess for that second chance.”

  ___________

  XRO Energy was kept safe from disgruntled ex-employees and paint-splashing activists by massive bollards that mechanically descended into concrete slots and a black wrought-iron gate that could stop an 18-wheeler going sixty. Once past the guardhouse with the magic of one’s corporate pass card and a wave from a guard, the road meandered for a full country mile through the shade of semi-tropical East Texas forest. It was meant to be relaxing, but Ken never found it a bit relaxing.

  At least not on the way in.

  Like most executives who had risen to his level, Ken awakened at five in the morning, ran like a locomotive on the treadmill in his home gym and got to the office no later than 6:15. Getting in early was key.

  It was necessary to get in early just to catch up on emails that trickled in throughout the night from around the world, from the elastomer plant in Dubai, the new refinery in Singapore, the offshore field near Darwin that had come into the company portfolio through an M&A. If he missed that precious window, Ken would pay for it throughout the day, sitting through endless meetings, tapping his feet, worrying what might be going wrong that he didn’t know about. That is why slugs who came in after eight never advanced beyond a certain level.

  XRO’s exterior, designed by a famous architect whose name Ken couldn’t remember, was made of marble and burnished steel. It looked like the progeny of a university library and a spaceship. Once through the cavernous interior and past the ever-smiling guards and the card-activated revolving door, the mood changed from cold science to pseudo-warm tints and colors meant to sooth. The lighting was low, the walls done in pleasant tans, every room linked by two hundred-thousand square feet of bronze carpet. Scattered throughout the complex were large oils, mostly pastoral landscapes from the countries in which XRO operated, though not a one of the mountain lake scenes or pristine deserts included an oil derrick or a diesel cracker.

  Ken’s admin, Karin, would not be in for another two hours. She preset the coffee maker every night so the odor of brewing black roast would stimulate him as soon as he came in through the door. Ken poured himself a cup and sat down to work.

  A baker’s dozen of new emails.

  Dubai: Report on worker fatality from last March. Ken sent it to the printer so Karin could put it in his binder for tonight’s reading.

  Singapore: There was a draft press release for the inauguration of the new catalytic steamer. He scanned it, hit the ‘read’ receipt and sent back a one-word response, ‘approved.’

  Russia: The Arctic project was ready to announce the one-year delay. The delay was blamed on a backlog in construction, but it was really about Russian anger over Western sanctions.

  Headquarters: It was from Margo O’Donnell, Corporate Vice President and General-Counsel. It had a one-word subject line, “Iran.”

  Ken felt a squirt of anxiety. He clicked.

  Ken,

  We need to discuss this matter as soon as possible.

  Margo J. O’Donnell

  That was it, like an invitation to discuss theology from the Inquisition or a knock on the door to ha
ve a late-night political chat with the Stasi. As soon as Ken heard Karin dropping her things he called her in. He had her set up a meeting with Margo for 11 a.m.

  For the next few hours, Ken met with the social media team assigned to disseminate health goals to employees. He spoke with media relations about NGO allegations over the recent fatality. But in his mind, through all the discussion and questions, the 11 o’clock meeting had already begun.

  Iran.

  It had been but a brief encounter two months before, just a minute with an Iranian delegate to the World Petroleum Congress in Vienna. Ken remembered being dog-ass tired through the whole trip. The older he got, the less well he handled jet lag. That, and the required ceremonial drinking and whirl of people and presentations had made him seem disconnected from his body and the convention dreamlike.

  The world’s private and national oil companies, with a scattering of big contractors like Haliburton and KBR, had set up booths, and dispatched delegates to present papers and hold discussions on best practices on environmental quality and safety principles. The whole purpose of the event was to share information, so Ken tried to mask his tiredness and slid into his friendliest and most helpful mode as corporate ambassador. When it was almost over, Ken had to host a cocktail reception with 500 people before going up to his room for blessed sleep. Ken remembered that the Iranian delegate at the reception, a shy, diminutive man whose nametag said Eshan, had presented a paper on safety and flaring.

  A Canadian Club on the rocks in hand, Ken walked up to Eshan. He noticed the Iranian’s small fist was wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Ken thanked Eshan for his paper.

  After some small talk about their respective careers and families, Eshan asked a polite question about the Arctic.

  Ken took a sip and replied, “Actually, the whole project could be on ice, forgive the pun. Probably will be.”

  “I understand,” Eshan said. “What’s the timeframe?”

  “Eight months for a final decision,” Ken said. “Then it’s go or no go.”

  Eshan took a sip.

  “Big stakes, I sympathize,” he said. “If you had to guess?”

  “No go, for sure.”

  Eshan said it was a pleasure and Ken turned to a young woman from the PR department of Total who had a question about managing the communications around estuary spills.

  And that was it. In a few seconds, Ken Woods had not only divulged sensitive corporate information, he had also likely violated the Iran and Libya Sanctions Act of 1996. Worse, he had been overheard by Jerome Robinson, standing behind him, alone. Jerome was close to the chairman. He was an eager, true-bluer without an ounce of give who would immediately report Ken Wood’s indiscretion to Compliance.

  It took months for Ken to come to appreciate the potential cost of his little slip. He had subjected his company and its 70,000 employees and millions of shareholders to the risk of a decade of import restrictions and excommunication from the Import-Export Act. Of course, it would never come to that. The U.S. government couldn’t afford to destroy the nation’s largest energy corporation. They could just settle by agreeing to the prosecution of one Kenneth H. Woods.

  A violator could get 15 years in prison. Of course, it wouldn’t come to that or anything like that, either. With a guilty plea, Ken would probably get fired, lose his stock options and serve a few months tending bean fields in a minimum security facility near Beaumont, never to work in a serious job again.

  Ken imagined what his mugshot would look like on social media. He imagined himself working the fields wearing an orange jumpsuit. He imagined himself after prison, living in disgrace on whatever savings the government allowed him to keep.

  Ken ran up the stairs from the third floor to the fourth floor. Margo’s office was just under the “God Pod,” the fifth-floor structure that capped the building and housed the four humorless and largely unseen imperators who oversaw the global strategy of the company. Margo’s receptionist was a polite young man with short hair who dressed like a Mormon on Sunday. Everyone dressed that way at XRO. Men never wore sports jackets, only suits. Shoes had to be polished to a sheen. Infractions were noted.

  The young man smiled and said, “Mister Woods, Margo will see you now.”

  Margo’s office would have been the right size for many company presidents. Tall windows looked out over the bushy green canopy of forest and the jogging trail that no one used after eight in the morning, except in the dead of winter. There was a plush couch, rarely used, in front of a coffee table with books on corporate history that were too boring to read and could only have been written by someone well paid to write them.

  Several chairs faced the couch around the coffee table, but they would not be used. Only schmucks were greeted at the couch. In the domain of a corporate officer, the real business always took place around the chairs in front of the desk.

  In one of those chairs sat Jerome Robinson, doing his best to look glum. He had started as a speechwriter to an executive vice president, who had gone on to become President and CEO of XRO. As his boss had risen, Jerome had wormed his way into become a free-floating assistant without portfolio.

  The chairman’s enforcer.

  Jerome was overly fashionable, wearing a tailored three-piecer over his stocky wrestler’s body. Jerome had a round head, pale skin and a sharp, Roman nose. That visage always brought to Ken’s mind the image of a jack-in-the-box.

  Margo was still sitting behind her desk, finishing a signature on a contract. Behind her were several photos of Margo with her teen-aged son and daughter on a ski vacation. Margo looked up and smiled at Ken and said something friendly, but Ken did not take in the words. He waited for Margo to come around and take a seat before he took a chair across from her. They were equals in the corporate hierarchy, but he still could be a gentleman.

  “So Ken,” Margo said, “let me get right down to it. We’ve reviewed your account of your conversation with this, uh, Eshan, and I am afraid to tell you that after much discussion and reading of the case law, it appears that you may have inadvertently violated the sanctions act.”

  She let that sink in.

  “And Ken,” Jerome spoke slowly, as if the very act of speaking was somehow a valiant defiance of shared pain, “this little incident is known and I must tell you that it is considered to be a disappointment.”

  Known. Meaning known by the God Pod, as if the very names of the Chairman and his three cohorts could not be spoken aloud. For a moment, Ken thought he was being fired. But no, that wasn’t it. If that were the case, there would be a senior HR person and another lawyer in the room.

  “We are going to have to report this incident to the U.S. Justice Department,” Margo said. “Don’t be alarmed. It is just pro-forma at this point.”

  “What … should I do?”

  Margo leaned against her hard-back chair and bit the stem of her reading glasses.

  “Ken, I think this would be an appropriate time for you to consult an attorney of your own.”

  ___________

  It took a week to locate a lawyer with the right background and credentials, a Big Law partner who had a way of eliciting admissions and evidence by giving his client a silent stare from behind rimless, polycarbonate eyeglasses. After a lot of listening and few questions, the lawyer told Ken to carry on as if nothing had happened. Behind the scenes, there would be an exchange of letters, meetings, talks with the DOJ.

  “Really, the more you can relax and settle in, the better chance this has of blowing over,” the attorney said.

  The long summer days dragged on for six weeks with no news from either side. In his daily work, Ken tried to hear what people said, read what they wrote, learn what they knew and then give them instructions on what to do. But it all seemed at a distance, as if he was straining to listen from the inside of a steel diving helmet.

  Only when Ken left the office on those summer evenings, windows down all the way, the sun still absurdly high
, did he feel any direct contact with the world. This feeling lasted until Ken pulled into his driveway. His home was a two-story mini-mansion of chalky-white brick with a sloping gambrel roof that gave it a storybook appearance.

  Jane always seemed to be feeding her bird whenever he came in.

  This mystified him. Surely she didn’t feed it all day long. Surely she didn’t run to feed it when she heard him coming up the driveway. Still, Jane always seemed to be doing this when he came through the door. She doted on her parakeet, which she had named Tony, after the Dallas Cowboys quarterback.

  Jane gave him a glance, smiled and continued to pour seed for the bird. She was pretty and petite, ass still firm from Pilates and yoga, bare heels lifted off the floor, lips pursed as she cooed to her pet.

  It had been several weeks since Jane had last asked Ken how his day had gone. It had been a habit of years, but now she knew better. Jane clearly thought her husband was overreacting, being too negative. But she had no idea what it took to go to work and put on a face for meetings while one’s guts churned in acid.

  Ken went to the kitchen and fixed himself a glass full of ice and splashed it with rye. He sat on a stool at his kitchen counter made of white quartz picked out by Jane’s decorator. Jane went to the stovetop and churned stir-fry. The scent of onions and spice made Ken’s nostrils flare and eyes water. A recipe Jane had picked up on their stint in Thailand.

  “Smells good,” Ken said.

  “Shrimp,” she replied. “Just like you used to order.”

  Ken dashed some more rye into his drink. The ice cracked and melted, an oddly pleasing sensation.

  “Honey …” she said, turning to look at him from the stove.

  “Yes.”

  “I know how tough this is for you.”

  Jane had grown up in Highland Park, but she had a serious accent like someone from the piney woods.