by Thomas Waite
“Please, Mr. Johnson, don’t bother to try to cover it up.”
“Okay, so you want a heads-up if I know when something is coming down.”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“So you can what? Take off? Warn Art?” He heard the anger in his words.
Dylan watched Ivan’s gaunt face. He realized Ivan was on the verge of a disclosure; he just didn’t know if it would benefit him or not. He decided to push. “I notice I didn’t get a heads-up from you about Matt.”
“I didn’t know Art would ask you to fire him. I’m not hearing as much as I once did.”
Dylan wrinkled his brow, confused. “Okay,” he said slowly as he organized his thoughts. “So—what? All you want me to do is promise to give you warning if I discover something? You’re still on my suspect list, you know, and pretty close to the top.”
Ivan remained emotionless and let out a long sigh. “I did not kill Tony, but I have nothing other than my word that I can give you. While I realize he was a close friend to you, he was nothing more to me than an employee. I mean no ill—I just had no history with him. My time with Mantric is coming to an end, one way or another. I’m just asking for a favor. Whether you grant it or not is up to you.”
Dylan lowered his glance toward the desk. The last thing he expected from Ivan was the request of a favor. The sound of silence, that mind-numbing experience of the total absence of sound, wrapped itself around him and squeezed. His photographic memory recapped the entire conversation but could not provide an answer to the question: Should he trust Ivan? All he had to go on was his instinct, his ability to judge this man. And, in Ivan’s case, his head told him one thing, and his gut another. He took the chance. “Okay. Consider yourself warned.”
Ivan raised one eyebrow and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “Something is in the works?” he whispered, more as an aside than a direct question.
Dylan nodded.
Ivan stood and walked to the window. He clasped his hands behind him. “Hmm. Your goal is to—what?—find evidence of wrongdoing, or proof of who killed your friend?”
“It’s all the same to me.”
“Perhaps not. Do you plan to do this alone, Mr. Johnson?”
“Actually, I’ve lined up outside help.”
“And what about inside help?”
Dylan’s heartbeat increased, and suddenly the temperature of the room seemed to rise. “What about it?”
Ivan paced across the room, the image of a man trying to make a key decision. “You wonder what Mr. Williams had on me?”
“Yeah.”
Ivan walked over to the window and looked out. “My country doesn’t exist anymore.” He stopped and took a breath, released his breath through his nose. “In my line of work, situations occur and people turn quickly to save themselves. I do not have pleasant memories of my actions. Let us just say political strife, when it reaches high levels, results in actions people do not forget.”
“So what does Art have on you?”
“When the revolution came, fortunes changed hands, memories were long, and my actions in one regime were remembered by the second. I had worked for the wrong side, you see. I fled with a price on my head and eventually found my way to your country. I am skilled at my job, and contacts introduced me to Mr. Williams. Unfortunately for me, they informed him of my past, and he has maintained a file on me. This was several years ago, but even then he was planning. He has the ability to look into the future and plan for his own good fortunes. I would not play a game of chess with him if I were you. He is always several steps ahead of his opponent.”
“How did you ever get a green card?”
Ivan did not answer.
Dylan immediately realized the answer. “You don’t have one, do you? Art somehow fixed it up so you could stay, or got you a fake identity. Is that it? Is that what you wanted to find? His file that proves you’re an illegal alien?”
Ivan’s eyelids flickered. “Yes.”
Dylan stopped and thought. “But you had access to all the computers, all the files. You could have deleted that information any time, and he could not have said anything to you because he would have been complicit in your illegal status.”
“His file on me was not on any computers. He had a paper file I’ve never found, and he would have manipulated the information to keep the authorities away from his involvement. I won’t be able to rely on Mr. Williams’s sponsorship any longer.” He turned to Dylan and changed the subject. “You won’t see me again, Mr. Johnson. I admire your desire to fight for justice for your friend. You show commendable passion.” He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and scribbled directions on it. “Perhaps this information will be of some value to you.” He handed Dylan the paper and turned to leave. He stopped at the door and turned around. “One more thing, Mr. Johnson. Those videos Ms. Carter saw? They were my insurance plan. Mr. Williams knows nothing about them.”
* * *
May 17, 6:00 p.m. Boston
The medical examiner’s report on Tony Caruso, ruling the death to be a homicide, was released at eleven o’clock that morning, more than two weeks after his death. The Mantric employees’ cell phones rang nonstop throughout the day, and Art sent out another emergency voice-mail to the U.S. staff expressing his distress, his support of Tony’s father in this difficult time, and the unsubtle implication that, if true, it certainly had nothing to do with Mantric. Dylan wondered if the news caused Art to put off firing him for another day. If so, he owed the Boston medical examiner a big thank-you.
Dylan was in his kitchen pouring a second cup of coffee just as the Tracfone rang. It could be only one of three people, and he hoped it was Heather. “Hello?”
“Hi,” she said. “Are we putting our plan into action today?”
“Yes. I’m taking the eight o’clock shuttle to New York this evening. Sorry I didn’t call you. Are you okay back in your apartment? You’re welcome to stay here if you prefer.” The sound of hope echoed in his voice, and he wished he were not so obvious.
“No, I’m fine. Did you see the news?”
“If you mean about Tony’s death, yeah, I saw it.” A moment of silence echoed between them. “Where are you on the spreadsheet?” he asked.
“I spent most of the day reviewing the information with Rich. He really is quite good with numbers, and even better at explaining them. I’m comfortable once we solidify the information, even if it has nothing to do with Tony’s death. With these numbers and the videos, we will have a solid case against Art and Christine and their illegal business practices.”
“Good. I’ll be at my hotel in New York. I need to organize our plan. Monday will be an ugly day at the office.” He hesitated for a moment, and then added, “Listen, Heather. I had a meeting with Ivan this morning.”
“You what?” Her tone became defensive. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me?”
“I needed to have some time to myself to digest the conversation, but, if you have a few minutes, let me tell you now.”
Chapter 29
May 18, 9:00 a.m. New York
Mantric’s senior mobile technologists gathered in the conference room to prepare for the week. Tony had been running those meetings, but now the task fell to Sandeep, the technology chief, who ran the meeting from his sanctuary in the New York office over their secure videoconference system. The agenda focused on a discussion of next-generation mobile computing operating systems and the impact they might have on Mantric’s clients.
The mundane discussion bordered on tedium, and Sandeep nodded periodically but said nothing. He kept a close eye on the morning’s stock prices as they scrolled across the bottom of his laptop display. Mantric, he noted, was down a few points, to 100. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and disappeared under his collar as he watched the Mantric price tumble down to 91.
The sounds of the voices in the distance became muffled, drowned out by the sound of blood surging through his head. He stared at the stre
am of information displayed on the screen; with each moment, the Mantric price dipped further.
“Oh my God,” he said suddenly. He rose quickly, sending his chair skittering across the floor, where it banged into the bookcase at the far side of the room. “I’m sorry. This meeting is adjourned.”
* * *
In the cafeteria of the Park Avenue headquarters, assorted members of the staff helped themselves to the daily fare of croissants and fruit. Rachel, telling herself she deserved a treat given the goings-on of the past two weeks, had just picked up a Danish when an outburst arose at one of the tables.
“Holy shit!” said Jack Krone, a notoriously fussy man from the marketing department known for his ability to write extremely witty headlines. He never swore.
“What’s happened? You’re going to have to be more specific if you want me to join in the fun,” Rachel quipped. She licked a bit of cheese Danish from her little finger as she wandered toward his table.
“This isn’t funny!” said Jack, pointing at his laptop. Rachel leaned forward and looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. “Jesus! That’s true,” she muttered.
Stephanie Mathers entered the cafeteria bearing a half-grapefruit. “What’s going on?” she asked.
Jack took a deep breath. “Our stock is nose-diving so fast it’s hard to keep track of it. Look at this,” he said, pointing to the bottom of his screen.
“What?” Stephanie gasped. She leaned close over Jack’s shoulder and squinted at the screen. “Quick,” she said, poking Jack. “Open CNBC and see if there’s anything there about the market. Maybe there’s something else going on that’s driving this fall. Maybe something happened that’s affecting the entire market.”
Jack quickly opened CNBC. There it was, right on the home page: “Breaking News: ‘Mantric Leaders Accused of Financial Irregularities.’”
Stephanie read the details.
“Numerous financial news websites have received information from unnamed sources within Mantric (NASDAQ: MNTR) that the firm’s senior management has been falsifying its financials to boost its stock price in an effort to sell their shares at a highly inflated price. In addition, it is reported Mantric, a recent darling of the investment community, has at least on one occasion, and perhaps more, actually sold its own clients’ secrets to other firms to generate additional income. While CNBC has not been able to verify this information, the sheer volume of accusations being made on reputable investment websites, including our own, has alarmed investors and resulted in a sharp drop in Mantric’s stock price. CNBC is investigating these charges and will provide continuous updates.”
Stephanie stopped and shot straight up. “Oh my God! This can’t be true,” she said to the half-dozen horrified Mantric employees who had gathered around them. A wave of panic began to build like a tsunami.
* * *
May 18, 10:00 a.m. New York
Dylan entered the New York office unnoticed. He avoided people and hurried to his office, wondering who would be the first to call him. He looked at the screen of his computer and shook his head. From behind closed doors, he heard Rachel as she rushed back to her desk and picked up the phone. Her voice had risen an octave.
“Have you heard the latest?” Rachel called to another party. “Apparently there’s breaking news on CNBC about us falsifying some financial information to jack up the value of our stock! They say it’s been done by people inside the firm!”
Dylan walked quietly to the door and pressed his ear against it to listen. He assumed she was talking to Michelle, Art’s secretary. He heard only one side of the conversation, but he knew the word was making rapid rounds throughout the office.
“You can say that again! When Mr. Williams finds out—well, somebody’s living on borrowed time!”
Dylan’s company cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He walked as far away from the door as he could and eyed the caller I.D.: Joe Ferrano. “Hello, Joe,” he said, his voice low.
“Dylan, what the hell is going on?”
“What?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” He wondered how fast the story would make the rounds, and he knew he would get a good read from an outsider like Joe.
“Are you kidding me? The news is everywhere! On CNN, on CNBC, on every financial and technology industry website. Check it out. It seems your boss and his cronies have been cooking your books!”
“Really. When did you—?”
“Two minutes ago. Dylan, it also says you guys are padding your pockets by selling out your own clients.”
Dylan was silent.
“Before all of this, the news about what happened to Hyperfōn was already getting out on the street. It won’t take people long to figure out our company was one of the ones your firm sold out! Jesus, Dylan, are you even listening to me?”
“Yes, Joe. I am. But I can’t talk about it over the phone.”
“I see.” There was a pause then a change in tone. “Dylan, are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“You don’t sound it. Can I help?”
Dylan stopped and shook his head. “Joe, I’m really grateful for that offer. After all that’s happened, I’d have thought you’d be the last person on Earth to offer me help.”
“Look, Dylan, I’m not saying I’m not still pissed off at what happened. I am. My company got screwed. But I don’t believe for a second you’re involved. I warned you about Art Williams’s reputation. And I like you, Dylan. You’re a talented and hard-working guy. I didn’t get where I am by luck. I’m pretty good at reading people, and we’ve worked together long enough for me to know you’ve been snookered as well as me. Hell, you remind me of me at your age.”
Dylan bowed his head. From across the room, he could see the computer screen blink with an urgent message from Art. He ignored it. “Thanks, Joe,” he said, choking on his words. “I’m sorry you’re involved in this mess.”
“Yeah—me too.”
Dylan paused and took a deep breath. “Listen, Joe. Do you think it’s crazy to pass up a fortune for the sake of a good friend?”
“Hell no! Wait. How big a fortune?” Joe chuckled.
Dylan returned the chuckle, then said, “I have to go. Thanks for calling, Joe. Maybe we can get together sometime. Outside of work?”
“Sure, Dylan. Call me when you can. And remember that offer of help remains open.”
Dylan disconnected his phone without further comment. He felt like a ghost, sitting in his office, silent, while at every level the Mantric staff found themselves in a world crashing down around them. In an eerie reversed image of the day the company had gone public, they huddled before their monitors and over their smartphones watching the numbers dance, spiraling down from the heights just as quickly as they had risen just a short time earlier: 61, 53, 51, 44, 37, 27 . . . 12.
Dylan sat in the dim office, lit only by the morning light coming through the windows. He went to his computer, ignoring Art’s urgent message, and dialed two numbers. Within moments the screen divided in half, with Heather’s face on one side and Matt and Rich on the other.
He placed a headset on his head to ensure no one in the office could hear their conversation. “Are you ready?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“Yep,” said Heather.
“Us too,” echoed Matt and Rich.
“Okay, so let’s go over this one more time.”
Heather spoke first. “I’m going to call Christine and ask her if she has spoken to you. I’m going to tell her I got a frantic message from you on my voice-mail and I’ve not been able to contact you.”
“And if she asks for any details?”
“I’ll tell her that you said you spoke to Matt and Rich and they had some important financial information related to Hyperfōn, but you didn’t leave any particulars.”
“What if she pushes for more?”
“Then I’ll act stupid, like financial things are so far out of my league, and I thought you might be
contacting her.”
“Good. Okay, guys.” He turned his attention to Matt and Rich. “How about you?”
Matt spoke. “I’m going to call Rachel and ask for you. When she tells me you’re not there, I’m going to ask her to give you a message—that I heard from Rich that he was supposed to meet with some high-end corporate lawyer about suing Christine and Art for unlawful termination. That the lawyer had found something in the paperwork that raised some legal questions in his mind. Then I’ll tell her I am going to meet Rich and his lawyer to give a statement, and the lawyer said he might be able to help me too with the Hyperfōn situation.” Matt chuckled. “Sorry to have to use Rachel this way, but she doesn’t keep secrets very well.”
“Well, that’s what we’re counting on. Okay, our timing has to be perfect.” He lowered his voice to just barely a whisper. “It’s 11:30 and Rachel has left. She’ll be back from lunch in about thirty minutes. Just keep calling until you get her. I’m staying put until I hear her side of the conversation. You let Heather know once you’ve completed your end of the deal. Heather, you make your call to Christine as soon as you hear from Matt.”
Rich’s face appeared on the screen. “Are you sure about the timing of this thing?” he asked.
Dylan took a deep breath. “Nothing is guaranteed, but, if I know Rachel, she’ll hightail it to see her good friend Michelle, Art’s secretary. And I have no doubt Michelle will waste no time telling Art. By that time, either Art will call Christine, or she will have already called him. All they need to know is where your supposed meeting will take place. Be sure you give the name of some restaurant far enough away that traveling to and from it will give me enough time.”
“What about Michelle?” Heather asked. “How are you going to get past her?”
“One thing I’ve learned is that when Art is out of the office, she takes advantage of his absence and runs an errand or two. She keeps a close eye on his calendar and knows when she can wander and when she can’t. He won’t be gone ten minutes before she’s out somewhere.”
There was a moment of silence before Heather asked, “Are you sure the information Ivan gave you is correct?”