Paradime (4 page)

‘So . . .’

‘So what’s
my
solution? I look people in the eye, I hold their attention, and get them to focus for five minutes on the least damaging options they have in front of them. Figuratively speaking, I talk them down from the ledge.’

He waves a hand in the air, as if to say
It’s that simple
, then sits back and smiles.

All of a sudden my heart is thumping.

‘You think
I’m
on a ledge?’

‘No, Danny, I don’t, not at all. But I think our mutual employer might be. That’s the point.’

I stare at him for a moment. What am I supposed to make of this? I hate it when people talk to me in riddles. I end up just wanting to punch them in the face.

‘I’m sorry, Phil, but you’re going to have to explain that to me.’

‘Fine.’ He taps the table with his index finger. ‘Things are very tense at Gideon these days, with the DoD, with the industry in general, with everyone suing everyone else, to the extent that it seems like the whole thing is getting out of control. I mean, Artie Galansky is on a troubleshooting roller-coaster right now and he doesn’t know how to get off. All he does know is how to escalate shit and make it worse. He’s a lawyer, it’s what they do, they generate billable hours, but sometimes you have to take a step back, you know what I mean?’

I shrug, half wondering now if Coover has made a mistake, if he might actually think I’m someone else. Because why would he be talking to
me
like this?

‘So then,’ he continues, lowering his voice slightly, ‘along comes some low-level employee, a food-services guy, say, and there’s a situation, there’s uncertainty, there’s a perceived risk. What does Artie do? What’s
his
plan? Crush the little cockroach, that’s what. He doesn’t give it a moment’s thought, doesn’t have to, because it’s all mapped out in the contract of employment, signed – as Artie sees it – by the cockroach.’

I swallow. And loudly.

Coover waits, giving me a moment. ‘Did you ever
read
your contract, Danny?’

I shrug again. ‘Yeah, of course, but—’

‘I know, who gets beyond page one, right? But interestingly, on page
fifteen
there’s a confidentiality clause that effectively prohibits you from speaking to anyone – journalists, investigators, prosecutors, your girlfriend, doesn’t matter – about any allegations you might have against Gideon. The declared purpose of the clause is to protect the company’s internal review process, but in essence it’s a gag order on whistle-blowers. So, put
that
with your GO-1C violation, and you’re in a very vulnerable position. In fact, as far as Artie Galansky is concerned, you’re not even a problem any more, because your employment’s been terminated, you have your letter of warning, and the next step, if required, is automatic legal action, which – believe me – will be clear-cut, swift, and brutal.’ He smiles. ‘You’re a ticked box, my friend.’

It’s not thumping any more, my heart – it’s paralysed, frozen over. Coover’s passive-aggressive style is exhausting, and I’m not sure what to think, let alone what I might even begin to say.

Our drinks show up.

But the time-out is all too brief. Coover doesn’t even acknowledge Cecily’s presence, which means that Cecily, being the pro that she is, doesn’t acknowledge ours. She’s gone pretty quick.

For a second or two I look at the Martini on my side of the table, then reach for the club soda. I take a sip from it.

‘Okay, Phil,’ I say, ‘what are you telling me here that isn’t in the letter? Why is
this
cockroach getting special attention?’

‘Well . . .’ – he drags the word out – ‘that’s simple. It’s because
I
think Artie Galansky is wrong.’ He reaches for my Martini and pulls it towards his so that the two glasses are aligned directly in front of him, the large olives hovering below his face now like an extra set of eyeballs. ‘He’s paranoid is what it is, about whistle-blowers, because these days even the
word
is enough to—’

‘But I’m not a whistle-blower.’

Coover clicks his tongue. ‘Maybe not technically, Danny, maybe not
yet
—’

‘What are you talking about?’

But even as I’m asking him the question, I get an uncomfortable sense of what the answer is going to be, or at least its shape, the contours of it.

‘Listen, Danny,’ he says, ‘Gideon has its systems, its internal review mechanisms, and they’re looking at what happened that night, all of it, the riot, the thing you saw, or
think
you saw, they’re investigating it, you can rest assured of that . . . but what they don’t need is someone loudly confronting senior officials or approaching a congressman in a goddamned airport lounge. What they really don’t need – according to Artie Galansky anyway – is some emotional, guilt-ridden wreck of a guy walking the streets of Manhattan ticking like a goddamned
time bomb
.’

‘Jesus . . . am I under surveillance?’

‘Well,
duh
.’ Coover takes a sip from the first Martini. ‘They’re watching you like you’re a video game, Danny. What did you think?’ He takes another sip and puts the glass down. ‘They’re just waiting for you to finally crack and take up where you left off back in Afghanistan, making wild accusations, shooting your mouth off. At which point they’ll crush you.’

I lean forward now, almost halfway across the table. ‘Yeah, I
get
that. Jesus. I’m not an idiot. And the reason I’ve been walking the streets is because I’m looking for a fucking
job
, Phil. Which is something I really need. So I don’t have any intention of shooting my mouth off. As you call it. But you know what? If Artie Galansky wants to push things—’

‘
Yes
.’ Coover slaps the palm of his hand on the table. ‘There, that’s it, you see?
That’s
what I’m talking about. You’re a smart guy, Danny. You get it. But you have your limits too, and if Artie pushes you over some line, all hell’s going to break loose, am I right? Though’ – he pauses, and holds up a finger – ‘if that happens, make no mistake, you’ll still get crushed.
My
argument is that if it happens, Gideon will suffer too. But in ways they don’t foresee.’

I lean back again, listening closely, my anger now cut with real confusion.

Coover huddles forward. ‘Look, Danny, I’m going to be straight with you. Gideon is a fairly dysfunctional outfit . . . and, okay, you know, maybe I don’t like the way they run those bases over there, fine, but my job as a strategist is to protect the company, and in this particular situation the most effective way I can do that is actually very simple. It’s to make
them
leave
you
alone.’

I know I’m being manipulated here, and in a way that I don’t fully comprehend, but if this is a possible outcome, does it really even matter?

‘I’m not going to argue with that,’ I say, as I reach across the table, retrieve the second Martini, and bring it to my lips. If the hit I take from it isn’t quite a gulp, it’s definitely more than a sip.

I put the glass down and add, ‘But I’m not going to pretend I understand it either.’

‘Understand it, as in—’

‘As in why, and . . . I guess . . .
how
?’

‘How is easy. How is I tell them and they do it.’

‘What, you just tell them to leave me alone?’

‘I tell them that in my professional assessment you’re a level-headed guy with good judgement, that you’re not going to crack, and that they should drop the GO-1C thing and pay up what they owe you. And they listen. End of story.’

‘But . . .
why
would you do that?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be doing it for
you
, Danny. I’d be doing it for them.’ He takes a sip from his Martini. ‘Because . . . okay, let’s say you start shooting your mouth off about Gideon, about these two alleged deaths on the base, and let’s say you get some lawyer involved, and Gideon responds by invoking their confidentiality clause, yeah? That’s where I see the trouble starting. For
us
. As I said before,
you’d
be buried in a pile of shit regardless, with legal expenses, the GO-1C thing, and a slew of counter suits, all of which you’d lose. But there’s a good chance, in the current climate, that Gideon would face a challenge over the legitimacy of the clause itself. Because there
is
an argument to be made that it violates the federal False Claims Act. Just possibly. Now that might not sound like much, but it could have some pretty far-reaching consequences, so why draw attention to it? Especially if you don’t have to? Yeah?’ He pauses. ‘It’s a can of worms that we don’t want to see opened up, is what I’m saying.’ He pauses again, as though searching for a better way to explain himself. ‘At the end of the day, it’s not anything you need to be concerned with. It’s nit-picky lawyer stuff that affects
us
, potentially, but if I can give Artie the assurance that you’re a disinterested party, just some guy trying to get on with his life, then . . . I think we can all relax. Artie cuts a cheque. You tear that letter up. Everyone’s happy.’

There are several things I could say to this, questions I could ask, remarks I could make, but I think we’ve reached the endgame. Coover has made his offer. There’s really nothing more to discuss.

I look at him and nod. ‘Okay.’

He nods back and gently taps the edge of the table. ‘Good.’

If this was a negotiation, then I’ve actually come out of it with more than I was looking for going in. Which feels good. But also feels too good to be true. In any case, at this point Coover reverts right back to his earlier, chattier mode and starts asking me questions – Iraq, Asheville, the old man – so that by the time we’re finishing our drinks and getting up to leave, he’s morphed into my best bud. He even half apologises for the whole mess and says, you know, the way these corporate types think they can just trample over people is actually sickening. On our way out, he quizzes me about work – what kind of job I’m looking for, what I’m good at. And even though I can’t help feeling that he must know most of this stuff already, I tell him anyway.

‘You know what,’ he says, when we’re out on the street, ‘leave it with me, will you? I’m friends with a lot of people in this town, and if I can’t scare something up then what am I good for, right?’

Again, there’s nothing to argue with here.

He extends his hand and we shake.

‘Are you all set?’ he says, looking around. ‘You want me to call a car for you?’

‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Okay, well, I guess I’m done for the day. I’ll talk to you soon, Danny.’

And with that he takes off.

It’s just after five o’clock, and Third Avenue is hopping, offices everywhere letting out, the sidewalk a torrent of humanity. The afternoon has clouded over too, and the air has a dark, strangely oppressive feel to it.

I walk to the next corner, and stop at the kerb. As I wait for the light to change, I glance over my shoulder and across the street. Despite the traffic and the crowds on the other side, I catch a glimpse of Phil Coover slipping back in through the revolving doors of the Wolper & Stone Building.

My mind is in knots as I walk home, and for good reason, but it’s only as I arrive at the door to our apartment that I understand why.

I’m going to end up lying to Kate – and hating myself for it.

Of course, what makes it a little easier – at first – is that she’s pissed at me. Did I go to the meeting? Why didn’t I answer her texts? What is the fucking
point
of having a cellphone?

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her, ‘I just wanted to get it over with.’

She stands there, waiting for more, looking over her glasses at me. ‘Well?’

The version I give her is accurate as far as it goes, but I leave stuff out – like the fact that I have been, and presumably still am, under surveillance. I don’t tell her that my overall impression of the meeting is that Phil Coover pretty much played me like a fiddle. Which is another thing. I don’t actually mention Phil Coover by name. What I tell her is that Arthur Galansky was tied up and I spoke to some other guy. I try to focus on the positives. They’re going to release my last cheque. They
might
drop the GO-1C charge.

‘I’m confused,’ she says. ‘What changed their minds? How did you convince them?’

This is a reasonable question but what do I tell her? ‘I made a case, I guess. I told them it had nothing to do with
me
.’

‘As in—’

‘As in the
thing
. What happened over there.’ I clear my throat. ‘Look, I can barely remember what I said. It was a tense situation. I was nervous.’

I’m beginning to feel weird now, on the defensive, as if I’m being cross-examined.

Kate nods. It’s clear that her earlier ambivalence hasn’t gone away, but she seems to know not to push it.

My own ambivalence hasn’t gone away either. I manage to keep a lid on it while I’m awake, but in bed later – unexpected, unbidden – I get to see a human skull being cracked open, then smashed. It happens in a variety of locations – the lobby of the Wolper & Stone Building, my old prep station at Mouzon, our
bedroom
. I wake each time, the transition seamless, whatever chaotic setting of the previous moment giving way in an instant to the oppressive smallness of our actual bedroom.

In the morning I have a thumping headache. I drink lots of black coffee and eat a bowl of cereal. Kate has a coding assignment to finish today, and it’s going to require a lot of concentration, so I need to be out of the apartment pretty early. I don’t want to be a distraction to her, and, after yesterday, I know I would be. We don’t say much as we glide around each other, from bathroom to kitchen to living room, the familiar
pas de deux
of couples who live in small apartments. Sort of inconveniently too, and, in spite of my headache, I find myself actually wanting her. This is something I haven’t felt since that first night I got back. And call me obvious or stupid, but it happens as she’s emerging from the bathroom after her shower. She’s in a loose robe, her pale and lightly freckled skin glowing, her auburn hair wet and glistening. But that’s not what this is, not exactly – I see her like that every day. This is more a build-up over time of subtler tensions, of deeper needs, things which are now, suddenly and unexpectedly, uncoiling inside me. But then I realise that it’s always this way, that when it comes to Kate my arousal is unique and complex and layered, and that what I’m feeling in this moment is not just desire, it’s love.