Root and Branch

by Preston Fleming

  “Yeah, like winning that contract in D.C.”

  Turning away, he reached out for his cocktail glass and downed its remnants in a single gulp.

  The drive from Zorn’s residence to the Hotel de la Cité’s parking lot, just outside the walls of the citadel, took only ten minutes. From the lot it was a five-minute hike up the steep ramps and cobbled streets to the hotel. Zorn’s father, founder of Zorn Security, had been born in the old city, and Zorn never ceased to feel a thrill whenever he approached the medieval fortifications at night, their witch-hat turrets lit by flood lamps, looking like the backdrop to a troubadour’s tale.

  Though tourists swarmed the ramparts by day from April through October, most hopped aboard their sleek motor coaches by late afternoon, leaving the walled city deserted except for its thousand or more permanent residents and overnight guests. And through March, evenings were even quieter.

  Tonight, Zorn was the sole pedestrian making his way through the Porte Narbonnaise and up the narrow Rue Cros Mayrevieille toward the Basilique St.-Nazaire. He could feel a fresh breeze from the nearby limestone hills and, in the moist air, a faint scent of rosemary and wild thyme. He had nearly walked off the wine and whiskey by now and felt invigorated as he entered the hotel, an eleventh-century bishop’s palace converted into a five-star property that boasted vaulted ceilings, leaded Gothic windows, cavernous medieval fireplaces and first-class regional cuisine. The bar was tucked away in the palace’s former library, whose dark wood shelves and panels and claret-colored leather armchairs exuded tranquility.

  Walter Lang, Zorn Security’s Board Chairman, sat alone in a corner at the far end of the library, reading a newspaper. Zorn had called him to arrange the meeting moments after Kay ended the phone call with her brother and retreated to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

  “Have you been watching the news clips from America?” Zorn greeted the older man.

  “I have,” Lang answered, raising a hand to summon the bartender, who also served as waiter on quiet nights.

  Zorn had known Walter Lang his entire life and thought of him as a member of the family. Lang was an Alsatian who had served as a junior officer under Zorn’s father in Algeria and joined René Zorn as the first full-time employee of his private security firm during the summer of 1962. Though past his eightieth birthday now, Lang still carried himself like an old soldier. Dressed in tweeds as he was tonight, he projected an old-fashioned elegance imbued with a whiff of mothballs.

  The waiter appeared without delay and leaned over Lang’s shoulder to take his order.

  “Ricard for me,” the old soldier declared with a glance at Zorn. “Shall we make it two?”

  Ricard was the brand of pastis7 favored among Lang’s fellow paratroopers in Algeria. Half a century later, it remained the top-selling spirit brand in France, particularly in the south, where it occupied an essential niche in the Languedoc culture.

  “Ricard was Papa’s favorite, but, alas, not mine. I’ll have a glass of Byrrh8 on the rocks with a twist of lemon, please.”

  The waiter retired with their orders and Lang spoke up first.

  “So what sort of excitement has brought you to see me tonight, Roger?” Lang sat back in his armchair with one long leg crossed over the other, his gray eyes twinkling with irony. “I was just thinking over the weekend how dull things have been of late.”

  “We’ve been offered an opportunity,” Zorn began. “In America, of all places. A former colleague of mine who’s well placed in Homeland Security has invited us to bid on an expanded contract for our Triage system.”

  Lang regarded Zorn with a long, cool glance, like an old tomcat lazing in the sun, yet aware of all that went on around him.

  “And you know this man well enough to trust him?”

  “Well enough to give his invitation serious thought. In the past, you may recall, our chief problem in Washington has been gaining any access at all to major bids.”

  “I’ve heard about America’s new emergency measures,” Lang noted. “The cost will run into the billions. Even a few scraps from the table could give us a much-needed boost.”

  “Yes, the project presents a major opportunity, but under the current administration, Washington is more of a madhouse than ever. The project might lead in unpredictable directions.”

  “It could also help us attract a strategic acquirer,” Lang replied, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward.

  For the past year, Lang and the other directors had been urging Zorn, as CEO, to seek a merger or strategic alliance with a larger defense contractor to enable Zorn Security to compete more effectively in the global marketplace. For while the company was well positioned in Europe, the Middle East, and Africa, it faced mounting competition in Asia and the Americas. Merging with a major U.S. defense or security contractor could solve the company’s problems overnight.

  When the idea of selling the business was first raised, Zorn had been stung by the perception that the board, consisting mainly of his father’s former associates, lacked confidence in his leadership. But Lang had assured him that this was untrue. More relevant was the fact that most board members, along with many of the company’s senior executives and technical staff, had reached the age when their primary goal was to cash in their shares of the privately held business.

  Even Zorn himself, now in his early sixties, had felt the occasional urge to retire. Indeed, one might interpret his spur-of-the moment decision to spend the afternoon tending vines rather than wooing clients as a sign of that fatigue. Parlaying a major U.S. contract for the company’s Triage technology into a merger could offer a golden parachute to everyone at Zorn Security who wanted one.

  But a buy-out also posed risks. What if the sale failed to fetch the share price that the board desired? Or if, upon closing the deal, the buyer stripped Zorn Security of its most valuable assets, fired its employees, and left its smaller clients high and dry? Or what if some long-forgotten skeleton in either party’s closet scuttled the deal and led to nightmarish litigation in the American courts?

  The world of private military and security contractors included some highly disreputable players. Zorn could think of several potential acquirers to whom he would never want to sell. As CEO, majority shareholder, son of the founder, and a seasoned veteran of the global security contracts business, the task of finding the right acquirer would fall squarely on his shoulders.

  “I can’t argue with you about the upside,” Zorn conceded with a smile. “Our biggest U.S. competitors have boatloads of money to spend on acquisitions and are eager to expand into our markets. What military-industrial giant wouldn’t pay dearly to get its hands on best-in-class technology like Triage?”

  “Yet you have misgivings?”

  Before Zorn could answer, the bartender returned with their drinks on a silver tray, along with a bowl of mixed nuts, a small ice bucket, and a carafe of water for the Ricard. Lang spent the next few moments pouring water over the pastis and topping it off with two ice cubes.

  “Santé!” Zorn greeted the chairman, lifting his glass.

  “A la tienne!”

  “About my misgivings, then,” Zorn resumed when they had put down their glasses. “Long ago, you and Father and a majority on the board chose not to dirty your hands with rent-a-merc9 work, black-site interrogations, or contract prisons. Instead, you centered the company’s business on advanced intelligence applications, crisis management and air logistics. What if the American contract leads us into areas where we don’t want to go? Are we willing to stick our hands in the merde after having worked so hard to avoid it?”

  “Certainly not,” the chairman responded with a dismissive wave of his grizzled hand. “But using Triage to identify terrorists among America’s growing Muslim population involves none of that. Let us bid on the risk assessment and air logistics portions of the American program and leave the rest.”

  “Much of the program will likely be classified,” Zorn pointed out. “We may not know exactly what we’re
getting into until we’ve signed the papers. What if we’re asked to take on more than we’ve bargained for?”

  “That is a long-term consideration, to my mind, and in the long term we are all dead,” Lang parried. “The task at hand is to secure a seat at the American table, show them what we can do, and then attract a cash-rich acquirer to buy the company for a steep price. Once they hand over the cash, they can do whatever they want with our U.S. contracts.”

  Having spoken his mind, Lang let out a short, hard laugh and took another sip of pastis.

  “So you are not concerned about our people being asked to carry out, how shall we say, harsh measures?”

  “Throughout his life, your father never hesitated to take harsh measures whenever he found them necessary,” Lang answered with cold, unblinking eyes.

  But the remark seemed out of character for the old man. For while Lang had idolized Zorn’s late father and had taken on his values and even some of his mannerisms during their years together, the two old soldiers possessed distinctly different temperaments. Unlike René Zorn, a human dynamo who never eased up or gave quarter, Lang was a cautious man who calculated at least two moves ahead, watched for pitfalls, and was always ready with a Plan B.

  “Today, with Islamist terrorists running rampant on every continent, what sane person can deny the need for ferocity?” Lang went on. “This is no longer a matter of professional ethics, Roger. It’s a question of preserving civilization.”

  “Ah, so we’re back to ‘Nécessité fait loi10’?”

  While the two men agreed on most things, Lang’s experience fighting insurgencies in Algeria and Southeast Asia had left him with some strongly held beliefs that Zorn could not bring himself to share. For Lang, the ends often justified the means. Zorn preferred rules, even in warfare, though he knew Lang considered him the weaker for it.

  “War is a dirty business,” Lang went on, pursing his thin lips. “Excesses occur on all sides. One must get past one’s inhibitions if one is to prevail.”

  “But that’s just my point, Walter. I’ve worked among these contractors and their government bosses for years. For the Americans, the goal never seems to be final victory. It’s more about dragging out the fight, extending contracts, and maximizing profit. The contractors realized long ago that the U.S. government can print unlimited quantities of money, and they aim to grab their share as long as the party lasts.”

  Zorn picked up his glass and drank. The Byrrh felt refreshing after his long walk. He grabbed a handful of nuts from the tray beside him and waited for Lang’s response.

  “Listen, Roger, I’m an old man who’s seen much, but sometimes your cynicism exceeds even mine. If what you say is true, and the emergency measures last longer than expected, would you then decline to bid in the first place? Would you forfeit the chance to do right by your employees, shareholders, and family? What do you see as your goal in all of this?”

  “My goal?” Zorn was taken off balance by the question. “Do you mean as chief executive, or as an individual?”

  “Both. Is your first aim to maximize shareholder value? To crush the jihadists? Or to keep your delicate hands clean?”

  “All of the above.” Zorn replied, letting the gibe go by. “Declining to bid would serve only the last of those aims. But entering into an open-ended program of government overreach could end in our forfeiting all three. That’s why I would go to Washington but impose limits on our participation.”

  Walter Lang laughed again, this time with a harder edge than before. Expecting a lecture from the old man, Zorn set down his aperitif glass, crossed his legs and leaned back to hear him out.

  “If only your father could hear you now,” Lang began, shaking his bald head. “Here you are, wielding the one tool most capable of turning the tide in the greatest counterterrorist campaign of your lifetime, and you want to set limits? Limits, did you say?”

  Zorn knew better than to respond. The old man was a walking encyclopedia of military history and could come up with counter-examples to refute any argument Zorn might advance. Besides, Lang’s question was likely rhetorical, as his harangue seemed far from exhausted.

  “Do you have any idea how many times your father risked his life and his soldier’s honor in battles that were trivial by comparison to this? Have you no ambition? No yearning to leave your mark on history or to build on your father’s legacy? I know of no man alive more capable than you of instructing the Americans in how to crush their intifada11. But first, you must prove to them that you will go all-out for their cause. Limits be damned, I say!”

  “I am not my father.” Zorn fumed at Lang’s willingness to invoke his father’s memory to score rhetorical points. “Zorn Security is my responsibility now, not his. I must consider more than Papa’s legacy.”

  “Until now, I wonder if you have considered it at all.”

  Zorn felt his face flush and he felt a sudden urge to get up and leave. Having ethics didn’t mean he was soft on terrorism or a poor steward of his father’s company. But he couldn’t let the reproach go unanswered.

  “How can I forget his legacy?” Zorn snapped. “I never wanted to work for Papa’s company, and I never dreamed that he would some day let me lead it. But once he decided to retire, suddenly no one else seemed fit to walk in his footsteps. He badgered me endlessly till I agreed to join the board, and then pulled strings so that I would have no choice but to take the helm on his death. Oh, I’ve considered Papa’s legacy, all right.”

  “And it’s a truly remarkable one, in which you can take great pride.”

  “I’m sure it is, Walter, but there are many in America who would disagree. Like it or not, the Zorn name is held in quite low regard there. We can expect various activist groups to oppose any contract bid from Zorn Security. They’ll sling every glob of mud they can dredge up against us, from Papa’s alleged Nazi war crimes, to torture in Algeria, assassinations in Indochina, disappearances in Argentina, and so on and so on.”

  Walter Lang listened while a hint of a smile formed on his pale lips.

  “Yet, in times like these,” Lang pointed out, “those in authority who are charged with crushing the intifada may also consider the Zorn legacy an asset. Whether you intend to dirty your hands or not, if you fly your father’s colors, they will trust you. They will say: ‘Here is someone who doesn’t shrink from unpleasant tasks.’”

  Suddenly Zorn’s grip tightened on his glass and his eyes screwed into narrow slits.

  “But that person isn’t me, Walter. I couldn’t possibly hold myself out as my father’s clone.”

  “Then let someone else do it for you!” the old man roared. “That is why we hire publicists!”

  “Are you proposing that we aim our appeal to the hard-liners in the administration? That we roll the ball down their alley and give them the full dose of Papa’s potent medicine, toxic side effects and all?”

  “Has it not occurred to you, my dear Roger, that the primary reason why we have been asked to bid is that the hard-liners must have insisted upon it? Men steeped in counterterrorist doctrine, who understand that your father’s methods bring results? In desperate times, those with the strongest views decide the issue. I say, offer the Americans our stiffest medicine and give them good reason to choose us over our competitors.”

  Zorn cast a questioning look at Lang but in his heart he suspected the old man might be right. Sometimes Lang sounded just like his late father, so closely aligned were the two old soldiers’ minds after decades of working and fighting side by side. And most of the board members were cut from the same cloth as they. Clearly, their advice would be to offer bold solutions, presented with the hallmark panache of the late René Zorn. Roger held a majority of Zorn Security shares and could overrule them, but what good would that do? Maybe the time had come for him to take a deep breath, do what he was called upon to do, and leave the outcome to fate.

  Walter Lang waited until he could see Roger Zorn walk past the registration desk and leave the hotel b
efore he removed his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and dialed.

  While it rang, he looked at his watch: half past eight in Carcassonne, or half past two in Washington. A generic recording from the recipient’s wireless carrier came on as the call went to voicemail. Lang left a message in heavily accented English.

  “It has been decided. We will participate in the bidding. Our chief executive will travel in a few days. Your cooperation will be appreciated so that events turn out favorably for all concerned. Call me if you wish.”

  He pressed the red circle to end the call and gestured for the waiter to bring the check.

  “Charge it to my room,” he said, and left without bothering to sign.

  Chapter Three: Clausewitz of Counterinsurgency

  “There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where decades happen.”

  –Vladimir Ilyich Lenin

  MARCH, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Margaret Slattery could not recall a time when she had felt more discouraged. She trudged out of the conference room on the second floor of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and steered clear of the overeager staffers huddled around Charles Scudder, the newly promoted deputy national security advisor. The man was a complete fraud, an intellectual clever-dick with the soul of an eel who had long ago risen to the level of his incompetence. The only reason this time-server now occupied a coveted office in the West Wing of the White House was that his predecessor had erred too far on the side of caution.

  From what she had gathered, the previous deputy had been too slow to propose a plan to counter what the media had dubbed the “American Intifada.” The president lost patience. And Charles Scudder, spotting his chance of a lifetime, stepped forward and blithely promised POTUS the moon.

  Slattery lingered across the hall from the conference room until she spotted the president’s senior policy advisor, Nelson Blackburn, coming out the door. But on her way across the hall to speak to him, another attorney stopped her to have a word and she failed to reach her target until he entered the tiny office that Blackburn used between meetings in the Eisenhower Building.