A Billion Ways to Die

by Chris Knopf

  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.”

  SOON 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?”

  “None. If HR gets even slightly suspicious, they’ll just toss my résumé in a drawer and move on. The last thing they want is to talk to the cops.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Most HR departments are overworked, underappreciated and marginalized, despite the importance of what they do. There’s no percentage in bringing problems to upper management. Only solutions.”

  “You’re already sounding corporate.”

  “Simply maximizing my potential as a proactive collaborator in achieving our mission of enhanced shareholder value.”

  After close study of my identity theft short list, I chose Martin Goldman, who, like me, had a graduate degree in mathematics from the University of Pennsylvania. I remembered Marty. He was quiet, calm, competent and even more disheveled than I was. He’d spent most of his career at a public policy think tank called Metreconica in Princeton, New Jersey. They were absorbed into another company ten years before, prompting Martin to move around a few times as a research analyst in the NGO social welfare arena before shipping out last year for Singapore.

  There was no photo on his LinkedIn profile, but a Google image search threw up a few shots of him at his nephew’s bar mitzvah five years earlier, when he was working in New York City. We would never be mistaken for identical twins, but it wouldn’t take much for Natsumi and me to achieve a good family resemblance.

  I called all his former employers and received confirmation on his dates of employment, with no further comment. The same with Penn and his undergraduate school, Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut.

  I put the finishing touches on Marty’s résumé and before I could second-guess myself into indecision, sent it to the recruitment officer at The Société Commerciale Fontaine’s offices in White Plains. Then, like millions of edgy, hopeful and slightly self-deluded job aspirants across America, I anxiously awaited a response.

  CHAPTER 15

  When the phone call came, it felt like a hallucination. Even though I was well prepared for the possibility the scam might work, the words coming though the earpiece seemed strangely detached from reality.

  “Mr. Goldman?” the female voice asked.

  “Yes. Yes it is,” I said, in a near stammer.

  “You’re sure?” she said, amused.

  “Yes. I’m absolutely positive.”

  “This is Jenny Richardson. I’m an internal recruiter for The Société Commerciale Fontaine. I was hoping we could talk about the position you applied for.”

  “That’d be really great,” I said. “And thanks for using the whole company name. Now I know how to pronounce it.”

  “When did you get back from Singapore?”

  “Actually, about a month ago. And I’m not yet officially gone, but I’d love to make a change if I can find the right position.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked, with a forthrightness I both appreciated and felt a little unbalanced by.

  “I’m in the process of breaking up with my girlfriend,” I said. “She wants to stay over there. I definitely do not. But more importantly, I’m much more interested in the position you have open than continuing with my present responsibilities.”

  “Nice pivot. Could you come in for an interview? Just me for now, so nothing to worry about.”

  “I only worry about making a good impression. When would be good for you?”

  She gave me a few dates and times and I picked the earliest, feeling that looking eager was better than chafing under further delay. She seemed pleased with the choice.

  “Splendid. Business casual is fine.”

  NATSUMI WAS nearly as taken aback as I was.

  “I have to admit,” she said, “I didn’t think this would work.”

  “Hasn’t worked yet, but it’s a good start.”

  “We’re certain Chuck won’t recognize you.”

  “No. We’re not certain about anything but ongoing ugly uncertainty.”

  “Okay.”

  THE RECEPTIONIST guarding Fontaine’s human resources department had a professional’s honed resistance to gratuitous charm. So after one frail attempt at conversation, I sat in my khaki slacks, open button-down collar shirt, V-neck sweater, blue blazer and tassel loafers, and proceeded to fill out the standard application form.

  When I handed her the clipboard, she gave it a glance and whisked her hand in the general direction of the chair I’d just left. I sat back down, charmless but compliant.

  When Jenny Richardson appeared, the mood in the waiting room took a dramatic turn for the better. She had the tidy, neatly proportioned shape of a former gymnast, complete with short, straight hair and an open, earnest cast to her face. She shook my hand and asked, “What’s the weather like out there?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “Sunny?”

  “Good thing I’m not recruiting a meteorologist,” she said, brightly. Then again, she said everything brightly.

  “So you want your data analysts focused on the data instead of the weather?”

  “I like that. Follow me.”

  We went through an unmarked door into a trackless room filled with cubicles as far as the eye could see. She led me along a circuitous route that I would never be able to retrace on my own. She held miniconversations with everyone we encountered, without actually slowing our pace. No one tried to make eye contact with me, not wanting to establish a relationship with a person they’d likely never see again. I smiled at them anyway.

  We entered one of the rare semiprivate offices along an outside wall. The partition was glas
s, though you could close it off with a glass door. The space was large and equipped with both a desk set and a living room-like seating area. The solid walls were decorated with banal, corporate-issue artwork, and no sign that Jenny resided there as a regular thing. I sat on a rock-hard love seat. Jenny took a chair and spread a copy of my résumé out on her lap.

  “How did you like Singapore?” she asked.

  “They run a tight ship.”

  “I’ve never been there. Or anywhere but London, where my high school class took a two-week tour of famous landmarks. Do you think that makes me a lesser person?”

  “No. Just less-well-traveled,” I said. “You have time to make up for that.”

  “I do. I’m only twenty-nine years old, though I’ve worked in this office twice as many years as I spent in college, which makes me feel old. So why do you think you’d be great in this job?”

  “I love data the way other people love puppies. Spreadsheets, compilations, bar charts, integers, vectors and algorithms make me feel safe and warm.”

  “Though you also love puppies,” she said, helping me along.

  “And kittens. Though it’s not the data per se that’s so compelling, it’s what you do with it. That’s where most people in the information industry fall down. They’re far more comfortable telling you what is than what it all means.”

  She took her hands away from the résumé and adjusted her skirt, pulling down the hem with a deft and barely noticeable maneuver.

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I can barely do arithmetic, but I think I’m more sensible than my boyfriend, who works on Wall Street and thinks all truth lies within Generally Accepted Accounting Principles.”

  “Accepted by whom, I always want to ask.”

  “What can I tell you about our Economic and Cultural Development Department?”

  “What do they most want the person in this position to achieve?”

  “Excellent question. They’re buried in data that sloshes in continuously from all these public and private resources, from all over the world, in every imaginable format and level of sophistication, and they just don’t know what the heck to do with it all. Those are my words, not what they tell me. But it looks like they most need what you most like to do—make sense out of a big old jumble of information.”