Clamour of Crows

by Ray Merritt

  I sent Nip out with Viggie for a walk, around Constitution Avenue, of course, routing him past the Ellipse and the White House while I hurried to the National Gallery before it closed. I thought a little aesthetic nourishment was in order. It would fortify me for what I expected would be an unpleasant breakfast with Luc tomorrow.

  The walk was not only invigorating but enlightening. Gone in large part were the government geeks and policy wonks that I remembered populating a stodgy city. Rather there seemed to be a younger, more vibrant crowd milling about. You have to, of course, discount the steady stream of weary tourists, loaded down with souvenirs and looking for more.

  Maybe it has to do with that young couple from Chicago that moved in a few years ago.

  Before I knew it, I was there, at the entrance of the National Gallery. Calder, Moore, Noguchi, Serra, and LeWitt stood witness to the visitors as they entered. I was drawn to the Edward Hoppers. For me they showcase how the bittersweetness of being alone can be assuaged by embracing familiar surroundings. I had experienced that biting isolation and the depth of that feeling in the preceding three years.

  Looking at the Hoppers, I sensed that they were telling me it was time to move on.

  22

  I’m an early bird and apparently so are the pigeons of Washington.

  Nip and I crossed the hotel’s lobby just as the sun had broken through the cloud cover. I found a bench in Pershing Square. A passel of pigeons was already there—the only other occupants. A few scattered when we approached but most held their ground. After all, we were just visitors. And they had seen millions of us pass by.

  Washington’s rock pigeons are different from those of Paris and New York. Their gray bodies and dark blue necks are set off by their snow-white rumps. With wings that boast two black epaulets, they have an almost military look.

  Across the street, a congress of crows sat on the phone lines taking all this in. I smiled when I thought that among them might be Roäc—the crow Ben had referred to in his letter—watching over us, about to give me some sign.

  If he did, I missed it.

  Nevertheless this was a good time and a good place to gather my thoughts about my breakfast with Luc Grogaman. There were subjects that I could not broach with him professionally—Ben’s testamentary dispositions and his Precatory Letter. Both fell within the attorney-client privilege so I had to have a cover for the conversation.

  Suicide? I could query him about that. It could invalidate Ben’s insurance policy, presuming it was a new policy. That, though, seemed far-fetched. Suicide by heart attack just doesn’t seem plausible.

  I needed another subject that would engage him. The potential sale of Ozone’s military assistance subsidiary, ClearAire. I was sure that would get his attention.

  We met as agreed at the Café du Parc, the Willard’s power breakfast haunt. I scheduled it early enough for us to find a quiet corner. Surprisingly, he was on time. For some clients, tardiness was a marker of importance—too many more important things to do than worry about annoying your attorney. The truth is we are hardly ever annoyed. We charge by the hour and the meter turns on when scheduled. Dusting our heels doesn’t diminish our fees. In this case, I wasn’t charging by the hour—and he wasn’t late. He arrived with a lieutenant, whom he curtly introduced as Alessandro Sandino.

  Sandino was short and stocky. His frame seemed steel-cut. His hair, latte brown with blond streaks, was already receding. His nose had a slight tilt, probably from a break long ago. A stubborn chin and protuberant eyes rounded out an unwelcoming demeanor. His visage reinforced his prizefighter’s body—bull neck, barrel chest, and knock-kneed shanks.

  I had not seen Luc for more than three years other than fleetingly at Ben’s funeral. Up close, he was still tight and muscular. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed military short; his pallor was grayer than I remembered. It was his eyes, however, that defined him. They were as I remembered them—colorless and remorseless. I sensed in them a volatility that could turn malevolent given the right impetus. It may sound a bit melodramatic, but he heralded a dark destiny.

  “I just read about your Patriot Award from the National Rifle Association. Impressive! I was unaware of your interest in the plight of the eagle.”

  I always Google a person I’m meeting beforehand. You never know what you’ll find. The National Rifle Association is essentially a lobbyist for the gun industry and I would expect that ClearAire is a very good industry customer. And, I surmise, to dress up this organization’s agenda, they give awards for activities that nonmembers might find appealing. For an assortment of reasons, bald eagles were threatened with extinction and in 1967 Congress declared them endangered. In 2007, they were taken off that list, but they are still protected.

  “Ha! You’re well informed, Tucker. We have adopted the bex eagle—what most call the bald eagle—as ClearAire’s logo and mascot. They are fierce fighters. A good visual reference for what we do. The eagle has his talons around the globe just like ClearAire has its operations all over the world. We have given a sizable sum to organizations promoting the protection of eagles.

  “I’m a big game hunter myself. It’s my only hobby. Nevertheless, I have never killed an endangered species . . . well, hardly ever,” he added, smiling at Sandino who shot him back a knowing grin.

  “I’ve got a place near Benin City. Nigeria is a great place for big game hunters. And ClearAire is very active there. So I get special access. But enough of this shit. What are you here for?”

  He made it apparent there would be no more small talk so I launched into my inquiry.

  “I’ve been engaged by the Firm to help facilitate the administration of Ben’s estate and as you might expect, federal and state taxes play an important role. Since Ben left a considerable amount of his worth to his children, the estate taxes will require the estate to liquidate considerable amounts of his assets. One alternative we are exploring is to recommend that Ozone spin off its military operations and pay the net proceeds out to shareholders as a cash dividend. That would provide the liquidity necessary for the taxes. We would, of course, need the board’s approval to effectuate such a plan.”

  My pronouncement about the potential sale of ClearAire produced an immediate and expected rejoinder.

  I quite enjoyed his unease.

  “Listen, Tucker, I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with your Firm’s crap right now. I’m wall-to-wall since Baum died. I have made some great strides in calming the shareholders’ shitfits that followed his death. I have no intention of circling back to satisfy your partners’ prurient curiosity.”

  He then glanced down not particularly furtively at his array of mobile devices—multiple gadgets simultaneously active were the new symbols of power.

  Any good lawyer understands body language. It’s part of the skill set that separates one from the pack. I always watch the eyes. His weren’t bulging anymore. He had checked his anger.

  “That makes no sense. The idea of selling ClearAire is idiocy. You may have heard that Ben was toying with the idea of selling off the division, but he was not serious. I like to think he was more titillated by the fact that the Russett group was interested than anything else. Our government contracts group is on the cusp of real growth. There is no reason to sell it now—or ever. Our public shareholders aren’t clamoring for liquidity; we haven’t yet reached our potential. And our biggest competitor, Blackwater, is on the run. They recently agreed to pay the government forty-two mill for fuckups in Afghanistan and Sudan. Five of their execs have been indicted on weapons and obstruction charges, and two of their guards are up on federal murder charges. Their CEO has exiled himself to Abu Dhabi. Congress is constantly holding hearings on their offshore activities. Do you see what an opening this is for us? Of course Russett is interested. This is big.”

  “Perhaps Ben was concerned with the prospect of the government shutting down the wars,” I volunteered.

  “Look, it’s a win-win for us. There will always be wars so
mewhere and, if America is involved, the Democrats will want to outsource as much as possible. That’s what we do. If the hawks ever have their way, we have a hundred-year annuity. ClearAire may be the only option.”

  He paused for a caffeine hit, then continued.

  “You know, Tucker, these are delicate times. The board is skittish. I need to keep them placated. They were all very close to Ben. I don’t want Ben’s death to spook them and your poking around won’t help.”

  He was right to worry. Ben owned the Ozone board like every successful CEO does. They were handpicked people of impeccable pedigree whose loyalty was prized more than their insights. Without Ben, they were leaderless. He’d kept the board in a tight corral.

  “I assure you we will be discreet,” I said. Then I abruptly changed the subject, hoping to catch him off-guard. “It must have been hard for you being there when Ben died,” I said.

  He quickly, and I sensed quite defensively, countered.

  “Look, I had left the hotel long before he died. In fact, I was at the airport when Trombley called me. I left shortly thereafter on business. There was nothing I could do. Why do you ask?”

  Malignity was evident on his face. His countenance became Putinesque. He was like that—one moment seemingly exuberant, almost sympathetic, the next openly menacing.

  “We’re just trying to rule out foul play and suicide. Either could possibly affect the disposition of his wealth. You were with him for what we understand was much of the day, so I’d like your insight about the people he came in contact with that day.”

  “Look, Tucker, I don’t know what you’re really after, but you can tell those fucking partners of yours they’re on a short leash. I will not allow this company to be brought down by its lawyers’ ghoulish curiosity. Ben is dead. He was an old man. These things happen. I saw nothing out of the ordinary that day. But the company goes on and as of now that responsibility is mine. I intend to meet that challenge. And I better not find any of your time on our bill. We have enough problems with the SEC and Justice right now, especially the fucking SEC. It’s like mud wrestling a pig. After a while, you realize that the freakin’ pig is really enjoying it. We don’t need you and your goddamned associates diverting our attention. Understood?”

  There was that implacability showing through those piercing stone-gray eyes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was rotten in the State of Ozone.

  And Luc knew it.

  He stood up archly, signaled his capo, and turned to me.

  “Copies of the documents you requested have been assembled at ClearAire. We’d rather you and your people didn’t spend time there. Do you have a driver?”

  I nodded affirmatively.

  “Well then, I suggest your driver go pick them up. And if you don’t mind, could he take us with him? Our car broke down this morning and it will take too long to get a car service this time of day. We have pressing business out there and it would save time.”

  “Yes, of course, my car’s out front.”

  With firm shakes and almost imperceptible clicks of their heels, we were off.

  Nip was waiting with Viggie in tow. I introduced Viggie to his unexpected passengers and immediately sensed that something serious had agitated him.

  23

  Something was amiss. The breakfast conversation and Luc’s attitude just didn’t calibrate. Beneath it all, he was cold, distant, and unreadable.

  Nip willingly came to my side. I sensed she wanted no part of Luc and his goon. We set off for a long walk, hoping to clear my mind. It would be a good hour and a half before Viggie returned.

  “Let’s first go see this bex eagle, Nip. It’s across the park.”

  Eagles are not my favorite fowl. They’re big, with a wingspan of over six feet. I’ll give them that, but they are carnivores. They eat fish, ducks, turtles, and even their own. And they feast on carrion willingly. Not like my feathered friends at Twenty Acres. They’re almost all vegetarians, although they’re known to eat roadkill and leftovers when the opportunity presents itself. I think on the whole, though, compared to eagles, the denizens of Twenty Acres are much less aggressive.

  I like it that way. Nevertheless, the bex eagle became our national emblem, winning over the objection of Ben Franklin, who had thrown in his vote for the wild turkey.

  Washington was graced that day with perfect weather—no clouds, no humidity and a breeze that was embracing. I thought it an ideal day for a walk in the verdant open space that makes the capital so inviting—the Ellipse, Washington’s monument, and the National Mall.

  But before we did, we traversed the park to see the sculpture of the bex eagle, ClearAire’s mascot and symbol. A voracious carnivore for a company of mercenaries. It lived up to its reputation. Wings and claws extended, intent on the kill, it was truly menacing. Nip ignored it; inanimate objects were of little interest unless they smelled.

  I had almost forgotten how beneficial these walks could be—therapeutic, if not aerobic. Nip was more into information retrieval than exercise, yet any invitation to roam was met with excessive enthusiasm, manifested by a little dance-like ritual. She then settled into her sniff-and-anoint routine. Somewhat petulantly, I slid back into my happy Hamlet mode and contemplated death—a subject I had become conversant with.

  One thing seemed sure. Magic can’t bring people back, not even in the wizarding world. Life seems unfair. The words of Tolkien keep bouncing about in my head. “Many who live deserve death. Many that die deserve life.” Alice and the kids deserved much more than they got.

  Enough, I told myself. I’d been wallowing in this for three years and counting. I really didn’t want to make my life an ode to my paradise lost. So what had I done? I’d immersed myself in another death. Seemed an odd way to stop thinking about the subject, but it was too late to change flight patterns.

  To make matters worse, my gut was rumbling and it wasn’t from the food at breakfast. It was the company. Luc did that to me. He treated me with neither seriousness nor respect. I never minded being challenged by a client—you expect that. But I was sensitive—perhaps overly—to slights, real or imagined. Yet in a perverse way, that failing served me well. It was a great stimulus to keeping my guard up and any objectivity intact.

  Luc seemed more than uncomfortable this morning. He was aggressively abrasive. He was dismissive of my inquiry and particularly annoyed at our document request. I had explained in my request letter that we had only nine months to file the estate’s federal tax return. We needed to gather all of Ben’s assets and income streams and we had to get it right. An estate of this size would automatically be audited. That is why we asked for documents relating to all payments to or from Chimera, Cerberus, and Hydra. These foreign companies appeared to receive recurring consulting fees from ClearAire or partners related to it and we needed to know if Ben had any direct or indirect interest in or relationship with them. I had noted references to them in the files that Terry had shown me so I added them into the document request. I had remembered these companies from the SEC inquiry I was working on for Ozone just before Alice’s accident. ClearAire’s unresponsiveness back then was the catalyst for my abrupt departure from Disney and return to the Firm.

  I always suspected those entities might be conduits for facilitation fees or recipients of kickback payments. I got a bit of perverse pleasure in adding them to the list, even though they probably had no relevance to our task. Perhaps it was just a case of curiosity interruptus.

  Client hostility was nothing new for lawyers. I had experienced Luc’s dark moods before. Many clients—normally those who operate just below the boss—have animosity toward their lawyers. All lawyers do is slow their progress, place hurdles in their paths. CEOs tend to be more appreciative. They know the buck stops with them. Chief operating officers have shorter horizons, more tactical goals.

  They prefer to muscle lawyers rather than massage them.

  Luc had become interim CEO, but he was still the bully. He hadn’t mellowe
d since I’d left the Firm. But was he so venal and ambitious that he would kill his mentor? Of all those who were possible suspects, Luc might be the only one who meets the traditional tests for the culprit—motive, opportunity, and temperament. He has a kingdom to gain, he was alone with Ben the day he died, and he had killed before. I had heard him boast of his lethal exploits during his days as a Navy SEAL, and his only known hobby was big-game hunting. Those experiences may not have made him a murderer, but they did make him a killer.

  Perhaps I’m not being objective. Other than the letter, we had no evidence that suggested murder. Was my disdain for Luc coloring my objectivity? There are a lot of vice presidents who are a heartbeat away from the throne who do not hold a pillow over their boss’s face.

  If Ben was really intent on selling ClearAire, Luc might well have panicked. It’s not the kind of operation that shows well in sunlight. Additionally, acquirers like Russett have histories of replacing top management in their acquisitions. Russett in particular believed in putting his homegrown lieutenants in charge; he trusted only his own thanes.

  That would not be a surprise to Luc. He was the same that way. Everyone at ClearAire swore loyalty to him.

  He was a man with an excess of talent and an absence of conscience. And I suspect at times Ben was glad to have him.

  On our walk to my car Luc had reiterated that our inquiry was unnecessarily intrusive and that he would make his displeasure known to Evan. “Tucker, this is bullshit and you know it. You had better watch yourself,” he mouthed close-up, intentionally encroaching on my private space. Those words resonated in my mind. He had served notice that he was my personal monster. I feared that our success might well be measured by how we handled him. It was not going to be easy.

  My life had changed dramatically. A whole raft of new friends and old enemies were populating my days. Nip and I had lived for three years as a party of two. To better insulate myself from the silent chill that permeated me, I clung to her.