A Billion Ways to Die (17 page)

O
NE
OF
my great loves is the iterative nature of research. Starting with minimum information, nibbling around the edges, poking the data with a stick, stacking up knowns in place of unknowns, until patterns begin to emerge. As ignorance clears before careful search and discovery, knowledge accumulates in waves, building exponentially. Facts organize into systems of information and concepts either disintegrate or coalesce into solid learning.

The picture that formed of Andalusky was of an intelligent man whose public congeniality was well supported by his private correspondence. He eschewed typical sins of character and morality, confining his private web searches to car enthusiast and outdoorsman websites. No porn, gambling or even computer games. He hated golf, apparently, while extolling a nearly poetical love of fly-fishing.

He was nuts about Okayo, whom he’d met in the wake of the Haitian earthquake, him in his official duties as Fontaine’s development lead, her as a board member of a nongovernmental organization called The People Project, committed to providing microloans to individuals in developing countries, notably Haiti.

He pushed his company hard, just within the boundaries of propriety, to fund various social welfare projects in his wife’s native country, despite Fontaine’s minimal business interests there. So the Haitian operations received a large measure of Fontaine’s corporate largesse, though relatively insignificant compared to its global investments. It still resulted in a grateful group of NGOs, an equally grateful wife, and good works for people in constant, desperate need.

As Andalusky tirelessly acknowledged, Fontaine’s core enterprise was building things. Big things—petrochemical plants, refineries, gas pipelines, automated manufacturing, roads, bridges, dams, airports and casino resort hotels. Projects on this scale could only happen in cooperation with governments, national and local, official, ostensible and covert. For this, Fontaine needed a way to sweeten deals, provide political cover to local officials and grease the gears with the US State Department, which was another inevitable player in every project and transaction.

That corrupt practices managed to occur regularly within such a sprawling and complex global enterprise was inevitable. Yet the penalties for getting caught in that kind of hanky-panky were extremely harsh and unflinching. It could ruin an individual. For Fontaine as a corporate entity, in a highly visible and competitive environment, it was a matter of existential consequence. The result was a far more honestly run enterprise than the casual observer, fed a daily news fare about rampant corruption, might imagine.

In this, Chuck Andalusky was not only a paragon, he was the lead corporate officer in carrying out Fontaine’s fiduciary responsibility for hundreds of millions of dollars of US government investment in foreign economies.

No one took this role more seriously than Chuck himself, to the extent that much of his e-mail commentary involved nearly peevish complaints about how others grossly undervalued the importance of the task, and the need for relentless diligence.

Likewise, no matter how cynical or calculating his upper management (I read more than once, “The only good I care about is what’s good for the business.”), Andalusky himself expressed unabashed pride in the positive achievements his operation produced, constant concern for the people it was meant to help, and tireless promotion of the very concept of foreign aid and international economic development.

While this zeal might have alienated the callous plutocrats at the top of the company, there was no evidence of that. His yearly reviews were filled with glittering assessments, raises and bonuses on a steady upward arc, and the tone of his incoming e-mails was uniformly complimentary and appreciative. In others’ eyes, Andalusky was a man of high principle, who got things done for the good of humanity, without compromising his company’s financial goals or undermining loyalty to its capitalist mission.

“If we didn’t know better, you’d think the guy was a mensch,” said Natsumi.

“If we didn’t know better.”

S
OON
AFTER
, maybe a few days, Natsumi invited me up from the basement to the cavernous living room, where she had a fire raging, candles on every horizontal surface, chamber music on the stereo and a rolling cart heaped with tasty meats, cheeses and slimy green things in a pool of liquid that I ate despite my better judgment.

“I need to feel like a girl who lives in the world,” she said. “For just a little bit.”

“I think the boy might benefit from this as well.”

“I hope so. I meant to bring dripping washcloths to bathe your tired eyes and exotic oils with which to massage your weary, computer-tormented shoulders, but I ran out of time. So here’s a beer.”

I took the cold, tall bottle in hand and used it to salute her.

“Thanks for this. I appreciate it.”

“I know. How’s your work coming?”

“I’m learning things, but likely fruitless,” I said.

“How so?”

“It feels like knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Don’t know what to do with it.”

She uncurled from her seat on the couch and leaned over to gather up a plateful of hors d’oeuvres from the rolling cart. She poured a glass of red wine before dropping back into the overstuffed upholstery.

“I was thinking along similar lines,” she said, wiggling her butt deeper into the folds of cushioned fabric. “We’re too distant.”

“What would be closer?”

“Face-to-face.”

“I could get away with that?”

“You could.”

“You think if he could recognize me he would have done so at the gym,” I said.

“There have been loads of studies on facial recognition and visual memory, most of which show that people suck at remembering the faces of anyone but dear loved ones, or those we see every day. Simply adding hair and a phony nose changed your appearance, to Chuck, completely.”

“So what else are you thinking?” I asked.

“I looked at the job postings at The Société Commerciale Fontaine. There’s an open position for a data analytics professional at their White Plains Office. Among other duties, to support the international economic development division run by Charles Andalusky.”

“I should apply for the job.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

She took out her iPad and called up the ad.

“They want someone with at least ten years experience collecting, compiling and analyzing data from multiple sources, quantitative and qualitative, who has a close familiarity with standard- and custom-search algorithms and the ability to create real-time dashboards utilized in tracking and redirecting front-end input,” said Natsumi. “What’s so hard about that?”

“I’m not as good as I used to be. Since the bullet in the brain.”

“Okay, how about Marketing Specialist. Develop and propagate content in support of product management and sales objectives. Familiarity with web formats, social media and cause marketing/ social welfare affinity groups a plus.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“You’re a quick study.”

“I’m better off with the research position. As long as I can use a calculator. I’ll also need a fake résumé, college and graduate degrees, work history and references,” I said.

“Half of Congress can tell you how to do that.”

“And business casual clothes.”

“Sounds like an oxymoron.”

I
INVESTED
about a day plotting a counterfeit résumé before realizing inventing something from scratch would be prohibitively difficult and time-consuming. So I reverted to a strategy I’d already proven effective. I stole it.

Unlike my usual victims, it was preferable this guy be alive, avoiding the inconvenience of a death notice. When Human Resources checked a person’s professional past—education, work history, awards—it happened confidentially, and was a simple matter of confirming the facts. For anything beyond that, to get any subjective commentary about a person, you had to connect with references. That was the key to this game.

“You want me to do what?” Evelyn asked over the phone.

“Pretend to be one of my former employers. I’ll give you a script and Q&A. Along with how to answer the unanswerable.”

“That would be every question.”

“Just pretend you think I’m the best man for the job.”

“I wouldn’t be pretending. I’m a cardiologist, not a researcher.”

“In this case you’ll be something like head of research and strategic planning.”

“Arthur, this is nuts.”

“You’ll do great.”

Natsumi was an easier sell.

“Should I mention that I’m sleeping with you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Play it by ear.”

The third reference was the biggest challenge. The only other person I could trust with the mission was a Bosnian gangster named Little Boy Boyanov, a former arborist most recently employed in freelance weapons smuggling, prostitution and marketing tractor trailers full of stolen cigarettes.

“Hey, Mr. G. Long time no hear,” he said, using the only name he’d known me by. “You’re still alive.”

“Despite some people’s best efforts.”

“You want me to shoot them?”

It was a fair question, since that was a task he’d accomplished for me on two recent occasions.

“This situation’s a little different.”

I explained what I wanted him to do. He was game.

“You sure come up with some crazy shit, Mr. G.”

“I’ll send you the phone and a basic outline of your story. It has to make sense, but I don’t want to cramp your style.”

“What business am I in?” he asked.

“What do you want?”

“The tree business. I still have dreams.”

“Okay. I’ll just have to find a forestry outfit with a former executive from Bosnia.”

“Make sure the guy’s a PhD. I’ll need the credibility.”

“I’ll put something together and see how you like it.”

“How’s Mrs. G?”

“Well, thanks. She sends her regards.”

“I like that girl. Hard to rattle her.”

“She does roll with the punches.”

“More importantly, punches back.”

We exchanged more news on family and mutual acquaintances before signing off. I was glad to talk to him. In years past, I wouldn’t have imagined the flowering of this particular relationship, but recent times had borne the fruits of the unimaginable.

Not knowing when Fontaine would fill the job I was hoping for, I felt some urgency, but forced myself to be as deliberate and calculating as possible. This was strange new territory, with lots of unknown risks. So when I thought I might be ready, about a week into the project, I sat down with Natsumi and we went through the plan, point by point.

“The basic background check—education, work history, criminal record, credit rating—is probably done by an outside contractor. All they’re looking for is the facts, ‘Did John Doe graduate from Colgate in 1983? Yes? Okay.’ ”

“Have you picked your John Doe?” she asked.

“Not yet, but I have a short list. The trickier bits are the reference checks.”

“How so?”

I gave her the logic. Given today’s labor laws, people giving references can easily get into trouble, so most refuse to do it. Those who do are highly circumspect. HR people are used to this. The trick for my fake reference-givers will be sounding credible while sidestepping things they know nothing about. Without sounding like they’re hiding something.

“I’m ready,” said Natsumi. “Not sure about Evelyn and Little Boy.”

“They’ll have to be. I don’t have anyone else.”

“Seems sketchy,” she said. “You’re just giving HR a name and a phone number?”

“HR prefers references over the phone. Much easier to get something close to an honest opinion. Reference givers are far more reserved in writing, so e-mail’s out. The fact that I’m offering cell numbers encourages the idea that the reference-givers are letting HR into their personal space, and ergo, the opportunity for greater candor.”

“You know a lot about this,” she said.

“I spent years researching corporate HR. Unlike most of the wild stuff we’ve dealt with recently, I actually know this world pretty well.”

“What if it blows up? How much trouble can Evelyn or Little Boy get into?”