Too Close to Home

by Andrew Grant

  One hour and three—paid for—scotches later, an assistant collected Klinsman from the bar and escorted him to Dick White’s private office. White was standing behind the marble table he used as a desk when Klinsman walked in. He offered him his hand, passed him a cigar, and gestured toward a transparent plastic Louis Quatorze–style chair that seemed to be floating in the middle of the room.

  “Best. Event. Ever.” White waited for Klinsman to sit before settling into his own, much sturdier chair. “A record number of people. More press coverage. Higher revenue than even in ’06.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

  “A lot of the credit for that is down to you.” White pointed his cigar at Klinsman like it was a miniature bazooka. “You did some very fine negotiating to squeeze so much free stuff out of our suppliers. We saw a significant uptick in donations as well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. White.” Klinsman smiled. “And let’s not forget how big a factor it is, getting the use of the course for free.”

  White nodded magnanimously.

  “Which is why next year you should charge the full market rate.”

  White stopped, his cigar halfway to his mouth, his lighter poised. “And you have to go and ruin it. That’s the last thing I should do.”

  “With respect, sir, it would be the best thing.”

  “No, it would be a disaster. People are so generous to us because they know that every cent they give—almost—goes to the charity. Whatever it is. They’re impressed by our zero overhead. It sets us apart. Free use of the course is the key to that. Change, and we become just one of the crowd. And it’s a big, noisy crowd. Two years, three at the most, we’d be finished. And all my lovely free publicity would be in the toilet.”

  “Here’s the way I see it. The first few years, the event was smaller. That meant less wear and tear on the greens. And the course was less well-known, so there were fewer demands on it. Both of those things have changed, so you could absolutely justify introducing the charge.”

  “It’s not about justifying. It’s about being free. That’s what’s unique.”

  “What if there was a way for the course to be free, so the event’s still unique, but you charge for it, too?”

  “How many rounds did you play? Were you out in the sun too long?” White made a show of sniffing the air. “How much scotch did you put away?”

  Klinsman smiled and let the insults bounce off his thick skin. “It would work like this. You announce you’re going to charge the charity, which is totally justifiable. The course is a business, after all. But because knowing that every cent goes to a good cause is so important to our supporters, you make a donation from your own foundation that exactly covers the charge. The uniqueness is maintained, and as a bonus you personally get to look more generous.”

  White shook his head. “I take, I give. The optics would be neutral. And there’s no benefit to paying myself. There’s no new money.”

  “There would be if you used the Richard J. White Foundation.”

  “Why that one?”

  “Because it’s classified as a public charity. That means you can take donations from other people, but you have no obligation to contribute yourself. Over the last four years you haven’t put in a single cent. So if the course charges the charity, and the foundation covers the bill, the donors’ money is effectively going straight into your own pocket.”

  White lit his cigar. He took two hefty puffs. Then he hit a speed dial key on his landline phone. “Bill, I need some information. Right now. The Richard J. White Foundation. What’s its status? How much have I personally donated over the last decade?”

  White took another puff and turned back to Klinsman. “One of two things is going to happen in the next five minutes, when Bill calls back. Either you’re going to get a seat on the board. Or you’re going to get fired.”

  Some seeds grow, and some don’t, Klinsman thought. And some bloom almost immediately…

  You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. The person who coined that phrase had clearly never met Anna Vincent. Or attended an Internet for Seniors class at the Chappaqua public library.

  Mr. McGrath’s death hadn’t come as a blow to Anna. She’d never liked him. And in fact, once the dust had settled and she’d had the chance to reflect on it, she had to admit she’d found the whole episode very satisfying. It had proved that even after lying dormant for all those years, her instincts and her skills were just as sharp as ever. She hadn’t frozen when she overheard the conversation between Mr. McGrath and his partner about getting the brownstone cleared out. She hadn’t panicked. Instead her training had kicked in. Instantly. She’d dosed the tea just right despite not having handled K-2 since the poisons course she attended at Laboratory 12, more than forty years ago. She delivered the drink without arousing suspicion. Had the presence of mind to remove the cup and destroy it off-site, later. And she’d smashed up the study so comprehensively that the police hadn’t doubted for a second that a man—like Alex Pardew—must have done it.

  With the target of her surveillance out of the picture, Anna’s thoughts turned to Russia again. She seriously contemplated going back. She’d had no contact with her handler for years, so she no longer felt the need to seek his permission. But everything she read suggested that the corridors of power were crawling with oligarchs now, who were more interested in collecting expensive apartments in foreign capital cities and buying Premier League soccer teams than in fighting for the worldwide emancipation of the proletariat. She also found that she liked the house a whole lot better now that she lived in it on her own. What she needed was a way to continue her mission, but without having to leave. The library provided that. The library, plus a new computer and a fast Internet connection. Although really she felt the new technology made the job too easy. When she began her training, back in Leningrad, changing your identity was a complicated business. Now you could create an entirely new persona with a few clicks of the mouse. In her formative days, you could only be in one place at any given time. And it used to be dangerous to operate in the same city using more than one cover story. But now you could just open multiple windows on your screen and be anyone, anywhere.

  After six months Anna had cut back on her initial enthusiastic overproliferation and settled on just becoming three other people. Most of the time she was Sophie, a mild-mannered teacher from Detroit who was dedicated to educating teenagers about the true meaning of socialism. The movement had gained some popularity—in name, at least—in the country over the last couple of years, but it was clear to Anna that the spoiled American brats who thought that posting trite memes online was radical behavior actually had no concept of its underlying principles. That wasn’t their fault, she told herself. They’d been raised in a degenerate environment, starved of the oxygen of truth, and were in desperate need of guidance from someone who did understand the true struggle. She also enjoyed the role of Scar, a guru of activism who operated exclusively in private groups, where he could be more forthright in encouraging workers to organize and resist. And when she was feeling playful, Kali would take to Facebook and Twitter where she could bait fascists and ridicule their brainwashed mantras to her heart’s content.

  When she put the three strands together Anna was more satisfied than at any time since she’d left Leningrad. She had a good routine. She felt like she was making a contribution. And she enjoyed the poetic justice of taking corporate America’s profit-hungry products and using them to hasten its own demise. The disastrous events of the world may have pushed utopia further into the distance, but that was no reason to give up on trying to reach it.

  It was a shock when Paul appeared on her doorstep. She worried that it wouldn’t be safe to continue her work if he wanted to live in the house with her. It wouldn’t have been an insurmountable problem—she’d chosen a laptop because it was portable, and all her passwords were safely memo
rized so she could easily rebuild her profiles even if it became necessary to ditch and destroy the computer—but she was still relieved when Paul opted to stay at a hotel in the city. She worried again when he found out about the brownstone and decided to move in there. Then she calmed herself down. The alert level was no higher than amber, she figured. There was no way Paul could know the significance of the house. About what was hidden in the walls. It would make sense to be extra vigilant, though, so Anna contacted the person who’d been watching the house for her since Mr. McGrath had bought it. She ordered an increase in the frequency of the reports from weekly to daily. There was a commensurate increase in the fee she had to pay, but this was America. What else could she expect? And anyway, it was worth spending a little more for her peace of mind.

  The new message schedule took effect the day Paul moved into the brownstone. Every day, within five minutes of 5:00 P.M., Anna received an email: Are you free for dinner tomorrow, say around 7:00 P.M.? That meant there was nothing to report, so Anna just sent back her confirmation of receipt: Sorry, I’m busy all week. Then one Saturday morning Anna received a different message: A slot just opened in my diary. Are you free for coffee right away? That was an alarm. The most urgent kind. Anna replied: What changed at your end? A moment later an email arrived with a photograph attached. One snapped with a cellphone. There was no skill involved with it, unlike the ones Anna used to take. But she couldn’t question its significance. It showed a van. Parked outside the brownstone. Navy blue, with a gold shield logo. And Paul letting two men—one with tools, one carrying a clipboard—into the house.

  A picture like that could mean only one thing.

  It was finally time for Anna to run.

  Brian Rooney was suspicious. That was clear.

  He used his firmest handshake, then kept a careful watch as his visitor moved his chair far enough to fit his long legs into the space in front of the desk.

  “Mr. Bruce sent you?” Rooney crossed his arms.

  The visitor nodded. “That’s what I said.”

  “Why?”

  “He has a new client. Wants you to meet him. Thinks the guy has a problem he needs help with.”

  “Why didn’t Bruce tell me this himself?”

  “New procedures. An extra layer of insulation, to make the deniability more plausible. It’s not Bruce’s idea, though. This is coming straight from JD. He’s been paranoid—more paranoid—ever since the Pardew fiasco.”

  “I thought we were still on hiatus, because of that.”

  The visitor shook his head. “Nope. No need anymore. Pardew’s file is back—”

  “The file’s back? Are you sure? No one told me.”

  “It’s back. That’s positively confirmed. I spoke with someone—a reliable contact—who saw one of the detectives on the case physically holding it. Seems like you handled that situation with the internal security guy perfectly.”

  “Good, then. Thanks.”

  “And you ensured that Pardew was clear about which path he should take?”

  “Oh, the little weasel was clear. There’s no way we’ll see him again.”

  “Excellent. In that case, there’s no need to leave any more money on the table. As long as we’re careful, and we learn from recent experiences.”

  “OK.” Rooney leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Who’s the mark?”

  “A guy named Len Hendrie.” The visitor took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it to Rooney. “Here’s his picture and a list of his haunts.”

  Rooney took a pair of reading glasses from his drawer. “What did this Hendrie guy do?”

  “He’s an arsonist.”

  “A torch?” Rooney dropped the paper. “I’m not sure we should touch him. Those guys are weird.”

  “Mr. Bruce OK’d it. So did JD. This guy’s not a psycho. He was just getting even with some worse-type asshole who stitched him up. It was a onetime kind of thing. There’s no risk of this guy getting back into the system, further down the line. He’s learned his lesson, for sure.”

  “All right, then. I’ll try to make contact tonight.”

  “Perfect. Let me know how it shakes out.” The visitor passed Rooney a smaller slip of paper. “Here’s my cell number. Call me anytime.”

  “Let me finish.” Rooney didn’t take the note. “I’ll try tonight, after I’ve talked with Mr. Bruce and confirmed he sent you. No offense.”

  “None taken. Of course you should get confirmation. Mr. Bruce was certain you’d insist on it. He can’t talk to you himself right now—he’s in the middle of something he just can’t get out of—so he said you should check directly with JD.”

  Rooney paused, and splayed his stubby fingers out on the surface of the desk. “I’ll wait. Talk to Bruce tomorrow.”

  The visitor shook his head. “JD won’t be happy about the delay. The disruption Pardew caused cost him big. He wants the operation back up and running right away. His wife’s got her eye on a new Maserati. Better call him right away. You have his home number, right?”

  Rooney folded his arms and leaned back.

  “Here.” The visitor took out his phone, pulled up an entry from his list of contacts, and handed it to Rooney. “His personal cell’s on there, too. You’re bound to get him on one of them.”

  Rooney pushed the phone back across the desk. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you tomorrow. Let you know if I got hold of Hendrie. And if he’s up for any special assistance.”

  Jimmy Klinsman slackened his pace and scanned the line of iPad screens. He spotted his name on one of them. Strode forward. Dropped his battered leather Gladstone bag at the feet of the guy who was there to greet him and continued toward the exit without saying a word. The chauffeur felt that he showed extraordinary restraint when he didn’t drop-kick the bag onto the roof of the smoking shack. Instead he picked it up and followed his client, making sure never to get closer than six feet away. He wondered if Klinsman would confuse his disdain for respect, but didn’t care too much either way.

  “Wait.” Klinsman stopped. “You’re not my regular guy.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not here for that kind of thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My job is to wrangle your baggage and drive you to your destination. Not to speculate about my own existential nature. That costs extra.”

  Klinsman’s top lip wrinkled as if he’d taken a mouthful of something rancid. “I mean, where is my regular guy?”

  “He was selected for astronaut training, so he’s now en route to a NASA camp in the desert in New Mexico.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course not. He has a gallbladder infection. He’s out for two weeks, minimum.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “McCarthy. Paul McCarthy.”

  “I’ll remember that. Are you any good?”

  “I believe you’ll find my performance to be satisfactory in several respects. If not, I can provide you with the number for our customer complaint hotline. Although I suspect you already have it.”

  “Come on. Get me to my office ASAP, and we’ll see.”

  * * *

  —

  All the exit routes from the airport were seething with traffic, as usual, but as they were about to join the Van Wyck the driver spotted a gap between a taxi and another limousine. He hit the gas, hard, and as the car surged forward a folder slid out from beneath the passenger seat. In the mirror he saw Klinsman reach down and pick it up.

  “At least you’re reasonably cheerful.” The driver accelerated again to avoid getting blocked off by a minivan.

  “What?” Klinsman threw the word forward like it was a physical thing with sharp edges.

  “You’re more cheerful than my la
st client.” The driver forced his way into the outside lane. “I picked him up at his office, in Midtown. He seemed gloomy when he got in the car, then he started reading a bunch of papers and I swear I actually saw the will to live leave his body. I was genuinely worried he was going to slit his wrists where he sat.”

  “Stop.” Klinsman held his hand up. “Say one more word and I’ll see to it you’re fired.”

  “One more word.”

  “Did you just speak?”

  “Sorry. Misunderstanding.” The driver looked in the rearview mirror until he locked eyes with Klinsman, then mimed that he was zipping his lips. Klinsman sneered in return.

  In silence, Klinsman turned his attention to the folder. He started to read. Soon he was starting to feel a strong emotion, too, like the guy he’d just been told about. Only in his case, it wasn’t despair.