by Chris Pavone
So she started paying closer attention to her husband, who was definitely unresponsive to her proddings, and unforthcoming about his whereabouts, quiet and evasive, all the things that Will Rhodes had not been. Little by little, her suspicion migrated: it wasn’t her own supply of secrets that was creating the distance between them, it was Will’s.
Chloe didn’t expect Dean to have noticed anything, or to know anything. But now she does expect him to try to find out. Dean has been on a mission to seduce Chloe for more than a decade, and to him this will seem like an opportunity to succeed.
—
The space hidden inside Malcolm’s office wall isn’t much wider than a closet, but it’s long. One large wall is dominated by a map of the world, with large violent red swaths for the U.S.S.R. and China, and the names of countries—Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, East Germany, Upper Volta—that no longer exist. There are big six-pointed stars for national capitals, and flat faded colors—sickly amber, anemic taupe, washed-out blue—and time-zone longitudes. A few distinct handwritings in mixed pencils and ink annotate the whole thing with large numbers, long-forgotten names, unbreakable codes, and straightforward dates at places like Bulgaria and Chile, Vietnam and Angola, Nicaragua and Cuba, all the Cold War proxies. This map is a working document, not decor.
Industrial steel shelves hold a few olive-drab lockboxes. A wood-seated stool on casters is under a small steel desk, on which sit a clunky black telephone with an accordion cord, and an empty gunmetal-gray tray, no longer used. No one had gotten rid of the in-box. No one had gotten rid of anything. The room is a time capsule.
There’s one contemporary-looking item: a sleek logo-less laptop with a hard connection to a jack in a sturdy-looking metal box, exposed wires that disappear into a rough-cut hole in the floor.
The stool is not a comfortable piece of furniture, but that’s okay, because Malcolm never sits here for more than a couple of minutes. This secret office has existed for more than a half-century, and he suspects no one has ever spent more than the bare minimum of time in here.
Malcolm opens the computer, whose communications go to only one destination in the world, one person. He types the note quickly, just a one-liner. It looks like an email, but it won’t be traveling over the Internet.
We have a Will Rhodes problem.
NEW YORK CITY
“I was kidnapped.”
Elle takes the digital recorder out of her bag, places it on the table, hits the red square. Will suspects that she does this to remind him, at every single meeting, of the other recordings she possesses.
“Let’s not be melodramatic, Will.”
“I was abducted, and forcibly detained, and interrogated, in a foreign country.”
“By an American. You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“Like you were positive that I was some Australian chick who lives on the other side of the world? Exotic little side action?’
Touché. “He was American,” Will says. “He was CIA.”
She leans away from the Formica table, keeps her gaze locked with his. She seems to be debating something. “Okay, I’ll look into it.”
“That’s all?” He was hoping that Elle had some magical answer.
“Keep your voice down. What do you want from me?”
“An explanation.”
“Thousands of people work for the Agency, Will. Maybe tens of thousands. Half of us are working at cross-purposes. So yes: it’s possible that you were questioned by someone who’s CIA.”
He looks down at his bland lager, takes a sip, wishes he’d ordered a Guinness. Even if he didn’t particularly like Guinness, at least it tasted like something.
“You don’t look so hot,” Elle says. “You okay?”
“I’m not sleeping.”
Will had never been a particularly sound sleeper before—there has always been plenty to worry about, in the middle of the night—but things had gotten exponentially worse recently, after France and then Argentina, the subterfuge of the training in Virginia, this tense trip to the U.K., the terrifying episode in Dublin. Plus the lying to Chloe, the lying to Malcolm, the lying to everyone. He never sleeps through the night anymore.
Elle doesn’t ask Will to clarify why he’s not sleeping; she knows why. “Has anyone noticed?”
“My wife.”
“Is Chloe the suspicious type?”
“Not really.”
“What about your boss? Is Malcolm suspicious? Worried?”
“Maybe worried. I think he might be suspicious, but not of what’s going on.”
“About what, then? Did you tell him about me?”
Will doesn’t really want to admit this, but he probably has to. “I told him about France. Told him something about France. Everything except the kiss. I told him I was greatly tempted by an attractive woman, but I resisted.”
“You’re a hero, aren’t you? In your own imagination?”
“Oh go to hell.”
—
“GEC has been our most reliable advertiser for a long time now,” Malcolm says.
Stephanie flips pages, looking for information that isn’t readily apparent. “So what exactly is it?”
“Global Enterprises Corporation is an international communications and logistics company.”
Stephanie looks up from the file. “What does that mean?”
“Telecom, shipping, outsourcing, et cetera.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?” She turns to Gabriella. “Do you?”
“Last I learned was they’d landed new cell-service contracts across, um, Eastern Europe.”
“Southern Europe, I think,” Malcolm clarifies. Gabriella shrugs.
“And they’re based in Geneva?”
“I don’t think they’re really based there. But that’s where they have their nominative headquarters. I think most of their work happens in North America and Eastern and Southern Europe. They’re based in Switzerland so they can pay corporate taxes there. It’s called inversion. Shifting headquarters geographically to avoid U.S. taxes.”
“I know what inversion is. I’m the one who went to business school, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
In front of Stephanie is a tall stack of thick files, one for each of the major advertisers: their buy histories, important correspondence and legal agreements, handwritten notes and scrawled Post-its, anything that explains what it is the advertisers want, and what it is they get, out of their relationship with the magazine.
“And why is GEC’s contact editorial?”
“That’s how they want it.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Tradition. They’ve had a relationship with Travelers since before any of us was born, and that’s how it has always been. Or so I’ve been told.”
“And what does maintaining this relationship entail?”
“Not much. A couple times a year, one of us”—Malcolm points to Gabriella, then back to himself—“makes a presentation about our vital statistics, answers a few questions. I once went to dinner with some execs. You too, right?”
Gabriella nods. “One of those EVP types got a little, uh, grabby. That sucked.”
Stephanie looks from Gabriella to Malcolm, waiting for more. “And?”
“And so I was annoyed.”
“I mean, and that’s it? They don’t want anything else? They simply buy Cover 3 every month, with no discount or other consideration, no negotiation? Just this big transfer, fifteenth of the month? And besides inflation increases, this has not changed in—is this really true?—fifty-two years?” Stephanie looks down at GEC’s full glossy page, a globe, interconnecting lines, vague text, an ad that communicates practically nothing. “Why?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, our readers aren’t…our demographic is…Honestly, Malcolm, I don’t even know where to begin.”
“It sounds like you’re complaining about this, Stephanie. Now, I understand that you
haven’t had as much time on the job as other publishers. So perhaps you don’t understand, exactly, how it works, our business. I’ll tell you: we sell space—our magazine pages—to adver—”
“Give me a fucking break.” It doesn’t come out angry, just matter-of-fact, with an emotionless stare. She simply wants an answer, which isn’t unreasonable.
Stephanie had scheduled this meeting to take place in her office, but at the last minute Malcolm told his assistant to ask Stephanie’s if they could relocate, no explanation. He intends to never attend any meeting in her office. He’ll keep repeating this relocation farce until Stephanie gives up. Power is nothing more than the perception of it.
“What can I tell you, Stephanie? Almost all the time, things are much harder and more complicated than they should be. Very rarely, they’re easier and simpler. This is not a broken situation; we don’t need to fix it. I honestly don’t understand what your problem is.”
“My problem? My problem is that if GEC’s transfer doesn’t arrive for a few months, and we don’t immediately find a replacement with an equal level of—how can I put it?—largesse, then we’re essentially insolvent. This bizarrely nonrelevant company has been our most reliable advertiser for a half-century, yet we don’t know why they’re spending their money with us. To me, that looks like a problem.”
“To me, that looks like a solution.”
Stephanie taps her fancy pen—a Montblanc, probably a graduation gift, slid across the white tablecloth, Congratulations, Sweetheart, along with an envelope containing a check for the down payment on a co-op.
“I want to come to the next presentation.”
He laughs. “I really don’t think you do. But whatever.”
Stephanie doesn’t rise to his bait. She does an admirable job of taking shit from Malcolm without blowing her lid. Maybe it’s time for Malcolm to back off. She’s not actually an enemy, at least not yet. If they’re both still employed after the dust settles, he can slowly let out some line. She’ll get more and more invested, she’ll take ownership, and she’ll hold on to it all the more fiercely because of her initial struggle to overcome Malcolm’s hostility and the staff’s reluctance, to learn the culture, to solve problems. She’ll look at Travelers as her own, as the husband and children she doesn’t have. She’ll do anything to keep it safe. Even after she learns the truth.
—
“Show me.”
“Why?”
“What did I tell you about why, Will? Because I want to know. That’s why.”
Will takes the pen and napkin from Elle.
“Here’s Malcolm’s office,” he says, drawing a line, another. “Here’s Gabriella. Then me. This is the editorial corridor. Down this wing is art, around here publishing. This far corner is the publisher’s office, Stephanie Bloom, she’s new. Here’s ad sales, marketing.”
“Is that everyone?”
“There are corporate offices down on twenty-eight, for things like IT and legal and accounting. Up on thirty-three are C-level suites, corporate dining, I don’t know what else.”
“And the floors in between? Those are occupied by the other magazines?”
“Yes. There’s men’s, young women’s, fashion, fitness, food.” Will is counting them off on his fingers. “And, um…” He can’t remember the other one. All the magazines are in the process of being sold, one party to the transaction receiving stocks in a bewildering vesting schedule, the other assets of indeterminate value. Will can’t begin to understand how anyone structures such a deal, composed of practically nothing of tangible value.
“Business! That’s the other one. I always forget about business.”
“Of course you do.” She turns a notebook page. “So tell me about Malcolm Somers.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What’s the most important thing?”
“Malcolm is a married man. His wife is wonderful—everybody loves Allison—and he’s a very devoted husband, and a decently involved father to their two kids. But Malcolm has never been able to accept the permanent-monogamy aspect of marriage.”
“Are you saying he’s a cheater?”
“There’s something between him and Gabriella—there’s also something between me and Gabs—but maybe nothing ever came of it with Malcolm, just like with me.”
Elle raises an eyebrow at this turn of the story. Did he really once find that eyebrow sexy? Why?
“Does he travel a lot?” she asks.
“Hardly ever, anymore. He doesn’t write stories. If he travels, it’s only for events—parties with advertisers, cross-promotional things—and then it’s just in and out, one- or two-day trips. His job is in the office.”
“And what about Gabriella Rivera? What should I know about her?”
Will is surprised that Elle knows who Gabs is, but then realizes that of course she knows. Maybe the CIA tried to recruit Gabriella too. Maybe they succeeded. Is it possible that Gabriella—or someone else at Travelers—is engaged in the same clandestine op?
“What do you care?” Will asks, testing these waters. “Why are we talking about these people?”
But “Indulge me” is all he gets, another response that divulges nothing. Will opens his mouth to press the issue, but it’s pointless. Elle asks whatever she wants, without explanation. And Will answers. That’s the arrangement.
“I guess the most important thing about Gabs is that she wants to be taken seriously. She’s a genius—I mean, IQ-wise, an actual genius. She’s fluent in a half-dozen languages, and she has tremendous recall of facts, and a huge volume of competencies. She even types faster than anyone I’ve ever met, which in our line of work is extremely useful.”
“But?”
“But she’s also incredibly good-looking. You’ve seen her?”
Elle nods.
“And very flirty. I think people—women as well as men—are quick to dismiss her because of it, ‘Oh, that’s the hot girl from Travelers.’ Plus she’s Latin-American, or Afro-Caribbean—I don’t know what her ethnic makeup is, she explained it once but it’s too complex to remember. In any case she’s not Caucasian, or not mostly Caucasian, and she works in a field that’s very white. I think she’s worried about how the world looks at her.”
“Who isn’t?”
—
“Why do you say shit like that?”
Gabriella squints at Malcolm. “Like what?”
“ ‘Tap water would be fabulous.’ Fabulous? Really?”
“Just trying to be nice.”
“Nice? Are you sure that’s what you’re being?”
“Fuck off, Malcolm.”
He scans the menu, though at this point he pretty much has it memorized. But he despises the presumption of people who don’t even look at menus.
“Is she going to be a problem?” Gabriella asks. “Stephanie?”
“I don’t think so.” Malcolm can’t remember which fishes he’s supposed to not eat anymore. Tuna is definitely out. Mercury? Lead? Kills dolphins? What about swordfish?
On the far side of the room is that holier-than-thou busybody Ashford Warren, who would not hesitate to lecture Malcolm on his ethical-consumption violations. Ash once berated Malcolm, at length, for having purchased a bag of apples in early summer, a half-year out of season, at a moment when the market was overflowing with ripe stone fruit, grown locally. “But I want an apple, not a peach, you sanctimonious son of a bitch.” The two of them almost came to blows on Seventeenth Street. Fucking prick.
Ash catches his eye, and Malcolm nods at him across the room.
The restaurant is crowded, the staff obsequious, the crowd table-hopping, proud of themselves for being here, among one another, clubby-smug in the way that every club is at least a little smug, even when it’s not a club.
“Gabs, do you know if I’m supposed to be chewing or eschewing swordfish?”
She ignores this. “Are you really going to take her to the next GEC meeting?”
“I doubt it.”
“Stephanie’s?”
“They must’ve looked at a lot of candidates.”
As part of his middle-aged maturation, Malcolm has struggled to reconcile himself that he should often appear less important—less informed, less respected, less strong—than he is. This charade is particularly challenging with good-looking women. Great-looking women. Great-looking women about whom he’s had sexual fantasies for a decade. There’s only one of those.
“Fuck if I know,” he says. “I’m not consulted on things like that.”
This is not true. Malcolm was consulted, and he conducted his own independent research on all the candidates. That’s how he discovered that Stephanie Bloom, daughter of the famously dickish mega-millionaire Seth Bloom, suffered from a certain weakness—a few of them—that Malcolm could envisage someday exploiting. So Malcolm had lobbied strongly for Stephanie, which confused the shit out of the corporate execs, because she was maybe the last candidate they thought Malcolm would endorse, if he was even willing to endorse any, which didn’t seem terribly likely. It was another of Malcolm’s enigmatic moves.
“Listen, Gabs, what’s up with Will recently? He’s been a little distant. You know what’s going on?”
“Something with Chloe, maybe?”
“Anything specific?”
“Not that I know of. How’s he handling the new assignment?”
“Seems fine. He’s doing what he should.”
“Have you gotten reports from the overseas bureaus?”
Malcolm nods.
“So what is it you’re worried about?”
“Honestly, I don’t know, but something’s up. Can you keep an eye on him?”
“Passively, or actively?”
“Actively.”
“Beginning immediately?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Malcolm feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He plucks it out, glances at the screen, the alarm telling him that it’s 1300. He’d gotten used to 24-hour military time during his years abroad, and kept using it. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ve gotta tweet.”