by A J Fontenot
“The ITG board is convening in…,” Ibsen looked up at the clock on the wall, “twenty-eight minutes. Let’s pull together what we have and not complicate it.”
The conference room door opened behind them and Julia, Ibsen’s executive assistant, walked in. She was a stereotype from top to bottom. But, to her credit, she was good what she did. And she knew it, too.
“The final list for who’ll be at the meeting,” she said, handing Ibsen a piece of paper.
He took the paper without looking at her. “Thanks,” he said.
“Most will be arriving here shortly,” she told him.
He didn’t respond as he was looking down the list in his hand.
She turned to leave.
“Oh,” she said, turning back to him again, “and Paul Dannon’s flight was delayed, so he’ll be here, but cutting it close.”
Erin looked at Ibsen. “You didn’t tell me Paul is going to be here,” she said.
“Uh huh,” he said, not looking up at her. “Yeah, I guess ITG wants someone from SERA to weigh in. Just leave a few minutes at the end of your presentation for him to say something to the board.”
“What’s his opinion on all of this?” Erin asked.
“Honestly, Erin,” he looked at her, “you know where I am on this. I try to talk to Dannon as little as possible.”
4
Paul
Paul Dannon slipped into the back of the R4’s conference room. Erin was standing at the front, already presenting to the board. He found a seat in the back. He caught Erin’s eye — which wasn’t hard, as he was the only one not clad in navy or gray worsted wool.
He raised his hand slightly, giving her a little wave. How long had it been? he wondered. Seeing her there, grown now, brought back so many memories. Mostly memories of Gillian. He couldn’t help seeing Gillian’s brown hair and strong green eyes when he looked at her daughter.
Paul was never particularly close to Gillian, at least not after their childhood. But they both shared a certain love of the wild, the unknown. They were the kind of people who often didn’t make good families. And the day Gillian died, seeing little Erin, so tough and so sad, even a quarter of a century later, it was still hard to think about.
But Erin’s aunt, Olivia, had taken care of her. Olivia had taken care of them all. Even before Gillian died, when she’d work long assignments away from home, Olivia would keep Erin. Sometimes Paul wondered what it would have been like if he settled down and started a family of his own. Probably not too different from Gillian. Erin grew up strong. But no one should have to go through that.
Paul looked around the room, going through his outline as he did, getting his thoughts in order before he presented in a few minutes. He’d given hundreds of these talks. After he left the service, he’d started a medical procurement business. It was mostly networking and sales. Lots of boardrooms. Paul shifted in his chair. He thought after so many years he’d be used to these stuffy environments by now. The plush leather chairs and sea of dark suits. But he wasn’t. Paul was made for the outdoors. It was a simple as that.
As Erin finished, Carl Ibsen stood to address the room.
“Paul Dannon,” he introduced, holding an outstretched hand, palm up, in his direction. “Field director for Sustainable Environmental Resources for Africa, which many of you know as SERA. Paul’s here to give us his perspective from the ground.”
Paul walked to the front. He stood in front of a projector screen, for which he had no PowerPoint, and looked out into the small dark room.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” he started, “it’s always a pleasure to be here with you. As you’re aware, for the last week, we’ve been closely monitoring the situation.”
Unlike most charities, SERA was an NGO whose primary job was data — collect, analyze, and make projections to help local governments stay ahead of outbreaks, as well as to be a feeder to larger groups like the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in the United States and the World Health Organization (WHO) worldwide.
Yes…Paul was well acquainted with the data, which is why most of what he reported tonight was a lie.
A few days ago, Paul began noticing discrepancies. Not the kind that flag reports. But the kind that only analysts with a pay grade too low to say anything will spot. For most of his professional life, he’d worked with humanitarian aid organizations in some form or another. What most people didn’t realize is that NGOs are often fronts for corruption. There are, for sure, many good ones. But NGOs, by the nature of their work, deal with the unregulated, the donated. And it’s often done in moments of crisis, when support is needed fast. So they become easy covers for the less-than-honorable.
Being in the special forces for nine years, followed by the competitive world of procurement, Paul had developed a sense for when someone was bluffing him. It’s for this reason he’s always built his teams around people who have direct access to the information. But Paul learned another lesson early on: don’t play your hand until you’re sure it’s strong enough to win. Panama ’89 taught him that. That was a hard lesson. One he still limps from.
The people he now stood in front of had each, in their own way, developed a sense of survival. Most of them becoming sharks in their own right. And despite their differences in approach, it was a world he understood well.
“So,” Paul concluded to the board, “while we understand the concern for an outbreak, we do not expect it will be hard to contain.”
Paul thanked them and walked back to his seat.
Ibsen stood and addressed the group. “Team, you’ll have digital packets in your inbox by morning. Please review these, and, as more intel comes out, we’ll keep you posted on it, as well as with any changes that affect our publicity plan.” He pushed a button on a tiny remote and the lights came back on.
Erin picked up a small stack of manilla folders she’d brought with her and waited to shake the hands of several board members as they left the room.
Paul waited for them to file out and walked up to her.
“Paul,” she hugged him. “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed.”
A little grayer, he thought, but he just smiled. “It’s good to see you, too. How’s your aunt?”
“Oh, you know her,” she said. “Still…the same. Still safe. Still calls me each week to make sure I’m, I dunno…,” she waved her hand dismissively, “still alive, I guess.”
“Go easy on her. She means well.”
“I know. Hey…” she said, brightening, “how long are you going to be in town?”
“Just the night. Back to Ghana in the morning. I left those kids unattended.”
Jokes aside, ’those kids’ actually were actually a concern sometimes. He trusted each of them. And they were competent in their work. Steller, actually. It wasn’t that.
It was more the kind of people Paul naturally attracted. They were, in other words, people like him. People who didn’t always bide the official rules as closely as each and every official would have them. And as a result, they sometimes got themselves into…situations.
“Well, that’s what happens when you hire adrenaline junkies and Peace Corps dropouts,” she said, smiling.
“Don’t make fun of my dropouts,” he said, pretending to be serious.
“Listen,” she said, changing the subject, “I need to debrief with Carl, and we need to finish up a few things.” She shifted her folders and looked down at her watch. “Do you have time to grab a drink in a few hours?”
“I’d love to,” he said.
But in truth, this was another lie. It was becoming a theme for the night, he thought.
And…it was part of the reason they hadn’t seen each other in so long. He couldn’t help it. When he saw her, all the memories came with her. It’s just easier to leave some things in the past.
Plus, more practically, he didn’t know how far this thing went. The outbreak, if that’s what it was. It was off. He was still investigating the specifics. So it was t
oo early to know anything for sure. But if it was something, the last thing he wanted was her to get wrapped up in that. Again.
“Where are you staying?” she asked him.
“Oh…uh,” he took a moment, trying to remember. “The Mayflower,” he said. “Over on Connecticut.”
“The Mayflower?” she gave him a raised eyebrow. “That’s kind of swanky.” She smiled. “I always pegged you as the tent type.”
He let out a sincere laugh this time. The first since he’d landed back on U.S. soil. “You’d be surprised to learn how hard it is to find good camping grounds in downtown D.C. Besides,” he said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, “I didn’t book it.”
“Okay, the Mayflower…,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “Oh, there’s a little place not far from there. It’s a dive called the Green Gail. And,” she paused for effect, “I think you’ll like it. It has a lot of…what’s the word. Patina,” she finished with a smile.
“Sounds like me,” he said.
“I’ll text you when I’m on my way.” She turned to leave. Putting her hand on the door, she turned back to him. “Paul, it really is good to see you.”
“You too, kid.”
And, in a way, that was the truth.
5
Ibsen
Erin walked past a different dark, unused conference room and headed to Ibsen’s office. R4 was a sparse combination of modern design and Silicon-Valley startup. It took up all of the second and third stories of their building. The downstairs was mostly open space. They had an in-house barista, Marc. Even though their building had a coffee shop on the first floor, open to the public, it was more for affect. Upstairs was offices and a few conference rooms, spread around a large atrium-style opening that looked out over the downstairs.
Erin turned the corner, passing her own office, going straight to Ibsen’s. He wasn’t back yet, so she sat at his small round table next to the window overlooking K Street. The little park across the street, usually a green spot, was mostly brown now, matching the season. And the sun, upon getting lower, had turned the little brown park bronze. Evening traffic was already beginning to build.
Ibsen walked in and without saying anything, walked past her. This was part of the routine. Moments earlier, Erin had been working with Performance-Carl. That was the energetic, charismatic visionary. But now, he was gone and Business-Carl had come. Business-Carl was contemplative, calculating, and, depending on which side of the deal you were on, cruel.
He looked out of the window, watching the cars.
“Carl,” she started.
He didn’t turn.
“I was thinking,” she said, standing. “Let’s play this up. Earlier today, I was reviewing the InTrans Global account. And most of ITG’s publicity has been boring stuff, like new-vessel launches. Just industry news. But a newly uncovered dormant bacteria is discovered and a dozen people turn up dead in a short span of time — the media is going to jump all over that. There are already rumors of it becoming an outbreak. And because it’s already so closely tied to ITG and the work they’re doing in Ghana…,” she trailed off, hoping he’d chime in.
He didn’t.
“There’s only upside for us,” she pointed to the charts and reports she still had with her. “All of our sources are saying if there is an outbreak, it will be an easy one to contain. That puts ITG at the forefront of the solution. Easy win.”
He turned, without looking at her, and began to move around the room, looking down as he paced.
“No…,” he said slowly, finally. He looked up at her, more resolute now, “No. I want to bury this.”
“Bury it?” Erin looked at him. “Why?”
“I talked with Jonah Lennox earlier today. He feels the—”
“You did?” she interrupted.
“It was…different issue,” he waved dismissively. “He feels the political climate on the ground would not be helpful. Ghana’s always been a stable part of West Africa. Controversy wouldn’t be good for us right now.”
Erin wondered for a moment if he’d heard anything she said. Or if he’d completely lost his mind. ‘Controversy wouldn’t be good for us’… In the world of media, controversy was always good.
“This will get out, Carl. It’s just a matter of who breaks it first. We have a chance to control it.”
Ibsen walked back to the window again. He took a long moment before responding and then looked at her. “That’s the way we’ll play it for now. We’ll monitor, but we won’t build this up.”
And, as if the two-way part of their conversation was over, he said, “Get a summary of our position down, and send it over to Julia. She’ll handle the rest and get it out to the board.”
He turned to look back out the window.
Erin picked up her collection of manilla envelopes and walked to the door.
“Erin…” Ibsen said to her, over his shoulder.
“Yes?” she said, more hopeful than she’d intended.
“Shut the door, after you.”
6
The Post
Erin exited the Orange line, walked up the stairs, and stepped out onto North Highland Street. It was a short quarter-mile walk through Arlington’s office buildings and trendy lofts — a walk she made to and from work each day — that soon turned into smaller streets, lined with white-framed Victorian style houses. Each displaying its own neat lawn and Volvo.
Hers was a modest double, a two-story with no Volvo, and a lawn that was sometime-back replaced with shrubs and other low maintenance plants. She walked the cobble brick path and up the porch stairs, put her key in the lock and opened her front door.
Something about this part of the day always made her philosophical. Thinking about life. All of it. What had happened. What will happen. Maybe it was the solitude of the subway ride and walk that gave her mind a chance to slow down.
The almost-gone sun threw long shadows into her foyer. She flipped on the nearest light switch and made her way to the kitchen. The fridge had a few regulars. Bottled water, a cardboard holder with three long necks missing, and various store-bought microwave meals. She grabbed one of the latter and put it in the microwave.
She walked up the old wooden steps to her bedroom, took off her dark gray skirt and white blouse, tossing them away, and put on the same jeans and a new pullover. She walked back downstairs, emptied the microwave, and sat on the couch with her laptop and dinner. A nightly tradition.
Erin had reached a point in her career where she didn’t always get a chance to check emails at the office. At least, not after the day got rolling. Plus, when she did, they turned in to a conversation. Checking them in the evening nipped all that nicely. And her empty house was all too happy to accommodate quiet work into the evening.
As she began to eat what was probably mashed potatoes, she looked through her email. A new message from McGillis, the editor at the Post who she submitted her articles to.
From: Conall McGillis
Subject: water table pieces - tomorrow.
Finally, she thought.
Erin had spent almost two months tracking down leads and getting the right data. It started as an internal R4 project to aligned with one of ITG’s new initiatives about building up lesser known water pollution associated with developing nations. The cash flow and jobs are welcomed, but what gets lost — or buried — in the shuffle is the collateral damage. The nearby villagers would get sick, or contract diseases, and because many of them were not in the practice of going to the hospital until it was, honestly, far too late, they’d get sick, and sometimes die. But by that time, the chain of events that caused the illness was long gone.
Ovie Thomas of the World Health Organization (WHO) had been working on this very issue for some time. “It’s the socioeconomic conditions,” he told her, “that play such a critical role in determining the types of contaminant that affect the groundwater.” It’s the groundwater, just a few feet below the surface, that taints gardens a
nd contaminates drinking water, which then directly makes people sick.
“According to a World Bank report a few years back,” he continued, “poor institutional frameworks are commonly identified with poor implementation of water policy, and the poor are almost always at greater risk from the adverse effects of poor resource management.” Which is the exact situation developing nations find themselves in. They are doing the right things, putting in place the right laws and regulations, but until established, they are spread too thin to monitor, or even prosecute, the offenders.
“A practical scenario looks like this,” an anonymous source told her. “Chinese companies, like Shongdang Mining, are heavily invested in Africa right now. And, to their credit, their reputation is good. They’re licensed to operate. But they’ll set up a remote site, do their work, and move on. Because many African nations do not have long litigation histories, their regulations and permits have a lot of latitude. It’s not that Shongdang is doing anything wrong, per se. It’s just that there’s no way to prevent the inevitable pollution from making its way to people living off the ground.”
ITG—InTrans Global—had recently begun funding a clean-water NGO, and this internal report would be used mainly for shareholders. However, as is the nature with corporate culture, things change, and the project was no longer needed. By then, though, Erin had already done most of the investigating, so she shaped it up and sent it to McGillis as an expert piece, a kind of op-ed for the industry. He’d apparently put it on the backburner.
“A lot of things go wrong in the world. Don’t hear me wrong,” he told her. “It’s good stuff, but unless it’s new stuff going wrong, it won’t get the clicks.” She knew all that.
