by Alan Glynn
I look around reception again.
I could just walk out, but . . . there are surveillance cameras everywhere. If I bolt now, they’ll have footage of me behaving like a suspicious low life that could be used at some future point – in a courtroom, say, or online. Something else that’s bothering me is Kate’s use of the word ‘whistle-blower’. Even though this is exactly what I’m proposing not to become, it isn’t really how I ever thought of myself in the first place. But I suppose when I was confronting the Gideon manager at the base, or attempting to speak with Congressman Jack Gwynne, what the hell did I think I was doing?
Sensing movement, I look up and see a man appearing from a hallway over to the left. As he passes the receptionist, he says something I don’t catch and then heads over in my direction. I stand up as he gets near. He’s mid-sixties, I’d say, medium height, burly, muscular even, and tanned. He’s wearing a suit, but not a tie. There’s something about him . . . two things, in fact. One, he doesn’t really seem like a buttoned-up corporate type. And two, he looks vaguely familiar.
I stretch out my hand, ‘Hi. I’m Daniel Lynch.’
We shake. His grip is firm, and fairly intense, like his smile.
‘How are you, Daniel? Or . . . Danny, right? I can call you Danny?’
‘Sure. And I’m good. I guess.’ I pause here and take a deep breath. This is uncomfortable, but better to forge ahead, I reckon, better to get right to it. ‘Look, Mr Galansky, I got a letter from you this morning, from Abe Porter actually, that . . . well, that came as something of a shock to me.’
‘Of course.’ He nods vigorously and places an outstretched hand on my shoulder. ‘But listen, Danny, first I owe you an apology, okay? I’m not Mr Galansky. Artie is otherwise engaged, there’s been some development in . . . I don’t know what in, some case, who knows, but he’s pretty much chained to his desk for now. You and I can talk, though, right?’ He withdraws his hand from my shoulder. ‘And you know what?’ He glances around, as though someone might be listening. ‘Frankly, I’m happy to keep legal out of this.’
I stare at him, trying to make sense of what I’ve just heard.
‘Look at you,’ he says, and laughs. ‘Wondering who the hell this guy is. Well, I don’t blame you, Danny, to be honest. But let me introduce myself, okay? My name is Phil Coover.’
I don’t recognise his name, but I do remember where I’ve seen him before. It was in Afghanistan, at the base, and probably more than once. I would have seen him around the admin offices, is my guess, or in the back of a car coming through the checkpoint, or with a visiting group of military brass. Who the fuck knows. But he radiates a confidence that you don’t forget, a looseness. People with serious skin in the game, like high-level corporate execs or four-star generals, tend to be very uptight and locked in to what they’re doing. This guy has none of that. It’s as if he thinks it really is a game.
But clearly he’s with Gideon Logistics, even though you wouldn’t think it from the way he’s behaving. After supplying his name, for instance, he consults his watch like he’s on a golf course and says, ‘You know what? Enough of this shit, let’s go for a drink.’
I do an internal double take.
Because right now I’d fucking love to go for a drink, but not in these circumstances, not with this guy. Not with a possible lawsuit hanging over me.
I look at him. ‘A drink?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘why not? There’s a little place across the street, it’s quiet, they have these exquisite olives. Best in the city.’
So, before I know it, we’re riding the elevator down to the lobby. Turns out this is another thing about Phil Coover: he doesn’t take no for an answer, and he has the force of personality to back it up.
As we’re crossing Third, I picture myself just taking off at a run and heading for the nearest subway station. But, appealing as that might be, it’s not a serious option, because at some level I’m being played here – that’s what it feels like – and I really need to find out what’s going on. Besides, I suspect it’d take more than a few stops on a 6 train to escape the orbit of Coover’s attention.
We go into a bar – a cocktail lounge, the Bradbury – and sit in a booth near the back. So far, Coover has done most of the talking, and about nothing really – how busy he is, his travel schedule, even the weather. We could be two guys who just happened to leave work at the same time and decided to grab a drink together.
But we’re not.
So I lean forward now and look him in the eye. ‘Mr Coover, I don’t . . . I don’t get this. I don’t even know who you are. I mean, I recognise you from Sharista, but . . . this?’ I indicate where we are. ‘A drink? With some fancy fucking olive in it? Is this supposed to make up for my last pay cheque or something?’
Coover shakes his head. ‘No, Danny, it isn’t. And you have every right to ask, but . . . give me a second, will you?’
When I realise he’s reaching for his phone, I roll my eyes. He takes it out, and, as he’s scanning whatever message is on the screen, he says, half in a whisper, ‘Call me Phil, by the way.’
Our waitress arrives before I can respond.
‘Hi there, gentlemen. I’m Cecily. How are you fellas doing today?’
Coover finishes with his phone, puts it on the table and turns his attention to Cecily. Effusing courtly charm, he orders two . . . something Martinis, I don’t catch what he calls them, but I’m assuming they contain olives. The whole time, he doesn’t consult or even look at me, so when he’s done, I turn to Cecily and say, ‘And I’ll have a club soda.’
Coover laughs.
When Cecily leaves, he looks at me. ‘Okay, Danny, okay.’ He pauses. ‘I’m a consultant, yeah? These days mainly for Gideon, but I’ve worked with some of the other PMCs, and on both sides of the fence: direct combat, security details, all of that, but also management, and people.’
Where is this going?
‘People?’
‘Yeah, not human resources exactly, more conflict resolution. In the workplace, and elsewhere. It’s funny, but most of these disputes could either be avoided altogether or resolved by the simple application of a bit of basic goddamned common sense.’ He taps the side of his head. ‘Psychology. Because it never ceases to amaze me how flat out stupid people can be. For instance, I get called in on some thing that has already spun out of control, okay? I look at what they’re proposing to do about it, and ninety-five per cent of the time you know what my initial response is? I’ll tell you. It’s me going, holy shit, excuse me, this is your plan, this is what you want to do, you’re kidding me, right?’ He throws his hands up in despair. ‘It’s unbelievable, because what the “this” invariably is is fuel they’re adding to an already raging fire.’
‘So . . .’
‘So what’s my solution? I look people in the eye, I hold their attention, and get them to focus for five minutes on the least damaging options they have in front of them. Figuratively speaking, I talk them down from the ledge.’
He waves a hand in the air, as if to say It’s that simple, then sits back and smiles.
All of a sudden my heart is thumping.
‘You think I’m on a ledge?’
‘No, Danny, I don’t, not at all. But I think our mutual employer might be. That’s the point.’
I stare at him for a moment. What am I supposed to make of this? I hate it when people talk to me in riddles. I end up just wanting to punch them in the face.
‘I’m sorry, Phil, but you’re going to have to explain that to me.’
‘Fine.’ He taps the table with his index finger. ‘Things are very tense at Gideon these days, with the DoD, with the industry in general, with everyone suing everyone else, to the extent that it seems like the whole thing is getting out of control. I mean, Artie Galansky is on a troubleshooting roller-coaster right now and he doesn’t know how to get off. All he does know is how to escalate shit and make it worse. He’s a lawyer, it’s what they do, they generate billable hours, b
ut sometimes you have to take a step back, you know what I mean?’
I shrug, half wondering now if Coover has made a mistake, if he might actually think I’m someone else. Because why would he be talking to me like this?
‘So then,’ he continues, lowering his voice slightly, ‘along comes some low-level employee, a food-services guy, say, and there’s a situation, there’s uncertainty, there’s a perceived risk. What does Artie do? What’s his plan? Crush the little cockroach, that’s what. He doesn’t give it a moment’s thought, doesn’t have to, because it’s all mapped out in the contract of employment, signed – as Artie sees it – by the cockroach.’
I swallow. And loudly.
Coover waits, giving me a moment. ‘Did you ever read your contract, Danny?’
I shrug again. ‘Yeah, of course, but—’
‘I know, who gets beyond page one, right? But interestingly, on page fifteen there’s a confidentiality clause that effectively prohibits you from speaking to anyone – journalists, investigators, prosecutors, your girlfriend, doesn’t matter – about any allegations you might have against Gideon. The declared purpose of the clause is to protect the company’s internal review process, but in essence it’s a gag order on whistle-blowers. So, put that with your GO-1C violation, and you’re in a very vulnerable position. In fact, as far as Artie Galansky is concerned, you’re not even a problem any more, because your employment’s been terminated, you have your letter of warning, and the next step, if required, is automatic legal action, which – believe me – will be clear-cut, swift, and brutal.’ He smiles. ‘You’re a ticked box, my friend.’
It’s not thumping any more, my heart – it’s paralysed, frozen over. Coover’s passive-aggressive style is exhausting, and I’m not sure what to think, let alone what I might even begin to say.
Our drinks show up.
But the time-out is all too brief. Coover doesn’t even acknowledge Cecily’s presence, which means that Cecily, being the pro that she is, doesn’t acknowledge ours. She’s gone pretty quick.
For a second or two I look at the Martini on my side of the table, then reach for the club soda. I take a sip from it.
‘Okay, Phil,’ I say, ‘what are you telling me here that isn’t in the letter? Why is this cockroach getting special attention?’
‘Well . . .’ – he drags the word out – ‘that’s simple. It’s because I think Artie Galansky is wrong.’ He reaches for my Martini and pulls it towards his so that the two glasses are aligned directly in front of him, the large olives hovering below his face now like an extra set of eyeballs. ‘He’s paranoid is what it is, about whistle-blowers, because these days even the word is enough to—’
‘But I’m not a whistle-blower.’
Coover clicks his tongue. ‘Maybe not technically, Danny, maybe not yet—’
‘What are you talking about?’
But even as I’m asking him the question, I get an uncomfortable sense of what the answer is going to be, or at least its shape, the contours of it.
‘Listen, Danny,’ he says, ‘Gideon has its systems, its internal review mechanisms, and they’re looking at what happened that night, all of it, the riot, the thing you saw, or think you saw, they’re investigating it, you can rest assured of that . . . but what they don’t need is someone loudly confronting senior officials or approaching a congressman in a goddamned airport lounge. What they really don’t need – according to Artie Galansky anyway – is some emotional, guilt-ridden wreck of a guy walking the streets of Manhattan ticking like a goddamned time bomb.’
‘Jesus . . . am I under surveillance?’
‘Well, duh.’ Coover takes a sip from the first Martini. ‘They’re watching you like you’re a video game, Danny. What did you think?’ He takes another sip and puts the glass down. ‘They’re just waiting for you to finally crack and take up where you left off back in Afghanistan, making wild accusations, shooting your mouth off. At which point they’ll crush you.’
I lean forward now, almost halfway across the table. ‘Yeah, I get that. Jesus. I’m not an idiot. And the reason I’ve been walking the streets is because I’m looking for a fucking job, Phil. Which is something I really need. So I don’t have any intention of shooting my mouth off. As you call it. But you know what? If Artie Galansky wants to push things—’
‘Yes.’ Coover slaps the palm of his hand on the table. ‘There, that’s it, you see? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re a smart guy, Danny. You get it. But you have your limits too, and if Artie pushes you over some line, all hell’s going to break loose, am I right? Though’ – he pauses, and holds up a finger – ‘if that happens, make no mistake, you’ll still get crushed. My argument is that if it happens, Gideon will suffer too. But in ways they don’t foresee.’
I lean back again, listening closely, my anger now cut with real confusion.
Coover huddles forward. ‘Look, Danny, I’m going to be straight with you. Gideon is a fairly dysfunctional outfit . . . and, okay, you know, maybe I don’t like the way they run those bases over there, fine, but my job as a strategist is to protect the company, and in this particular situation the most effective way I can do that is actually very simple. It’s to make them leave you alone.’
I know I’m being manipulated here, and in a way that I don’t fully comprehend, but if this is a possible outcome, does it really even matter?
‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ I say, as I reach across the table, retrieve the second Martini, and bring it to my lips. If the hit I take from it isn’t quite a gulp, it’s definitely more than a sip.
I put the glass down and add, ‘But I’m not going to pretend I understand it either.’
‘Understand it, as in—’
‘As in why, and . . . I guess . . . how?’
‘How is easy. How is I tell them and they do it.’
‘What, you just tell them to leave me alone?’
‘I tell them that in my professional assessment you’re a level-headed guy with good judgement, that you’re not going to crack, and that they should drop the GO-1C thing and pay up what they owe you. And they listen. End of story.’
‘But . . . why would you do that?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be doing it for you, Danny. I’d be doing it for them.’ He takes a sip from his Martini. ‘Because . . . okay, let’s say you start shooting your mouth off about Gideon, about these two alleged deaths on the base, and let’s say you get some lawyer involved, and Gideon responds by invoking their confidentiality clause, yeah? That’s where I see the trouble starting. For us. As I said before, you’d be buried in a pile of shit regardless, with legal expenses, the GO-1C thing, and a slew of counter suits, all of which you’d lose. But there’s a good chance, in the current climate, that Gideon would face a challenge over the legitimacy of the clause itself. Because there is an argument to be made that it violates the federal False Claims Act. Just possibly. Now that might not sound like much, but it could have some pretty far-reaching consequences, so why draw attention to it? Especially if you don’t have to? Yeah?’ He pauses. ‘It’s a can of worms that we don’t want to see opened up, is what I’m saying.’ He pauses again, as though searching for a better way to explain himself. ‘At the end of the day, it’s not anything you need to be concerned with. It’s nit-picky lawyer stuff that affects us, potentially, but if I can give Artie the assurance that you’re a disinterested party, just some guy trying to get on with his life, then . . . I think we can all relax. Artie cuts a cheque. You tear that letter up. Everyone’s happy.’
There are several things I could say to this, questions I could ask, remarks I could make, but I think we’ve reached the endgame. Coover has made his offer. There’s really nothing more to discuss.
I look at him and nod. ‘Okay.’
He nods back and gently taps the edge of the table. ‘Good.’
If this was a negotiation, then I’ve actually come out of it with more than I was looking for going in
. Which feels good. But also feels too good to be true. In any case, at this point Coover reverts right back to his earlier, chattier mode and starts asking me questions – Iraq, Asheville, the old man – so that by the time we’re finishing our drinks and getting up to leave, he’s morphed into my best bud. He even half apologises for the whole mess and says, you know, the way these corporate types think they can just trample over people is actually sickening. On our way out, he quizzes me about work – what kind of job I’m looking for, what I’m good at. And even though I can’t help feeling that he must know most of this stuff already, I tell him anyway.
‘You know what,’ he says, when we’re out on the street, ‘leave it with me, will you? I’m friends with a lot of people in this town, and if I can’t scare something up then what am I good for, right?’
Again, there’s nothing to argue with here.
He extends his hand and we shake.
‘Are you all set?’ he says, looking around. ‘You want me to call a car for you?’
‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Okay, well, I guess I’m done for the day. I’ll talk to you soon, Danny.’
And with that he takes off.
It’s just after five o’clock, and Third Avenue is hopping, offices everywhere letting out, the sidewalk a torrent of humanity. The afternoon has clouded over too, and the air has a dark, strangely oppressive feel to it.
I walk to the next corner, and stop at the kerb. As I wait for the light to change, I glance over my shoulder and across the street. Despite the traffic and the crowds on the other side, I catch a glimpse of Phil Coover slipping back in through the revolving doors of the Wolper & Stone Building.