Head buzzes. “I don’t understand. What corporation are you talking about?”
“The corporation is Sligo-McNeil, Mr Ross. You know anything about Mr McAllister’s involvement with them?”
I lean back in the chair and think for a moment: something tells me to be cautious about admitting too much too quickly. Deadpan it. “Nothing really. Why? What’s the problem?”
This time it’s the other detective who replies. “The problem is that Sligo-McNeil believes Mr McAllister acquired information relating to a proposed takeover and used it to his own advantage.”
“You think Mac was involved in insider trading?” I can’t believe it.
“Something like that. We’ve been told that McAllister approached Sligo-McNeil and offered to do a review of their security. Seems he told them he had evidence that their computer system had been compromised by hackers. You’d know all about people like that, I guess, Mr Ross?”
I nod uncomfortably. The detective’s accent is educated east coast, way different from his colleagues street-tone, and he sounds cold and sardonic. I feel like I’m the one under suspicion and try to tell myself that this idea makes no sense.
“Well,” the younger man continues, “it seems McAllister got the organization to let him check through their records and that, while he was doing it, he may have removed a number of papers. These papers weren’t missed for a while.
“When the corporation finally discovered that the papers had gone, they had another problem. It seems Sligo-McNeil had been secretly preparing a bid for a Canadian company called Watling Timber. Seems this outfit’s what the bankers call asset rich. They own a whole bunch of forestland in northern Canada that’s worth more than the value of the company’s issued shares. It made them a prime takeover target. But just before Sligo-McNeil made their move, they discovered that someone had been quietly buying up shares in Watling's. They suddenly found that the share price was moving rather quickly against them.”
“But Mac couldn’t do something like that. He wouldn’t have had the money.”
The older detective sighs and goes on in the tone of an adult explaining something obvious to a child. “The way it looks is that he sold the information he’d acquired to somebody who did.”
I shake my head. “This is crazy. Mac was the most honest man I ever knew. Why, he used to be a cop himself.”
“Yeah, well, that’s no guarantee nowadays. I never knew McAllister when he was in the department, but CPD records show that he was under investigation on charges of taking bribes. That’s why he quit. I guess there was a deal and he went quietly.”
It’s too much. “Never. I knew the guy. He’d never have done anything like that.”
“Maybe you’re right, Mr Ross.” The detective sounds skeptical. “But you’ll understand we have to check these things out.”
“No, I don’t understand. Mac’s dead. Why do you want to screw up his reputation now?”
“We don’t want to screw up anything, Mr Ross.” The younger man again. “But the complaint has been made and we have to take it seriously. Particularly as there are obviously other people involved.”
I can feel my face burning. “You surely don’t suspect me of any involvement...”
“We have no proof as yet that anyone from your firm was involved.”
“As yet?” I ask incredulously.
“All we really want from you, sir, is any information you may have that could shed some light on this case. After all,” he continues reasonably, “you may be able to clear Mr McAllister’s name if you tell us what you know.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t know anything about this.”
“Hmm.” He turns and looks out of the window.
The older man continues for him. “You happen to know any of Mr McAllister’s other associates?”
“No, I don’t.” This is the literal truth. Although Mac had done some work outside his involvement with the firm, we never discussed it. I say as much.
The younger detective interrupts. “One of the things we’re not clear on is how McAllister came to approach Sligo-McNeil in the first place. He claimed to have picked up some knowledge about somebody getting into their computer system illegally. Do you know anything about that?”
My mind races. Something tells me that this is the question that counts: that the rest has been leading up to this. And the same something tells me that ignorance is going to be the safest policy.
“I’m afraid not,” I say. “Mac did a lot of work on his own account. He had a lot of contacts who put work his way. Our firm has had no dealings on the security side with Sligo-McNeil.”
“So you don’t know how he could have come by this information?”
“Sorry, I have no idea.”
“That’s a shame. Still, no need for us to take up any more of your valuable time, Mr Ross.” The older cop takes a card out of his pocket and hands it to me. “If you should remember anything that might help us with our inquires, maybe you’d give me a call, huh? My number’s on the card there. And, if it’s okay, I’ll give you a call back sometime just to see if anything’s occurred to you.”
I mumble that this is fine and show the pair out, breathing a sigh of relief when I watch the elevator doors close behind them. I walk back to my office. I realize that my pulse is still racing. Closing my door, I sit down at my desk and put my head in my hands, trying to think through this latest development.
Some time later, I also realize that I forgot to tell the detectives anything about my concerns over the way Mac died.
10
Damn! My mind’s all over the place. Twelve-thirty and I remember that I arranged to meet Michelle for lunch at a small restaurant near the office. I sigh hard. Eating lunch and talking to Michelle are two of the things I least want to do right now. Too bad: I figure there’s no alternative but to go.
She’s already seated when I arrive. She accepts my apologies for lateness calmly and I signal a waiter to let him know that I’m short of time and need fast service. We talk about the weather, my mind scarcely on the conversation, until the starters arrive.
Michelle looks at me quizzically. Probably she’s pissed at me but she’s putting up the act of tolerant amusement. “You’re hardly with me, are you? Perhaps you’d rather be somewhere else.”
“No,” I say, “it’s not you. I’ve just got a stack of problems at work.”
She’s unsure whether to believe me. There’s a soundtrack playing sixties hits. Beach Boys’ ‘Wouldn’t it be nice’ comes on. “Look, if you don’t want to see me, you’ve only to say so.”
“What?” Damn. Thoughts straying again. “It’s not that. I just...”
“Why don’t we just get this out into the open?” Michelle takes a deep drink of wine, her voice shaky. The amused bit has gone, replaced by nervous seriousness, but with Michelle I can never tell if it’s real or just another part she’s playing. “I don’t want to be left hanging on. I need to get something resolved once and for all.”
“What? I didn’t realize we had a deadline.”
She reaches across the table and lays a hand on mine, her voice soft and low. “I want to be back with you.” She takes an exaggeratedly deep breath. “There. You don’t know what it costs me in lost pride to say it. Actually, I don’t think I’ve got any pride left. I know, if we do get back together, that it may not be the same as it once was. Let’s just give it a month and see if it works out. You say you’ve changed. I have too. I know we can wind the clock back.”
I force myself to think, choosing my words with care. It’s a decision point in more ways than one. “It’s not that easy. I told you before that there was no other woman in my life. That was true and still is, in a way. But there is someone else. No relationship. In fact, a relationship is impossible. But...”
Michelle pulls her hand back, crosses her arms and seems to withdraw into herself. I tense, getting ready for possible explosions. “You love her?” I can see
the tears starting to form. Not here, I think. Not now.
“I don’t know what I feel,” I murmur. “Like I say, nothing can come of it.”
“She’s married.” It’s not a question.
“In a way. But...”
“That’s okay.” The tears are on her cheek now. She stands and picks up her handbag. “It seems I can’t stop being a fool, doesn’t it? I’ll just get out of your way.”
She pushes back against her chair, which falls over. People at nearby tables turn to look at us. “If it doesn’t work out, you know where I am. There, I told you I’d no pride left, didn’t I?”
I watch her walk from the restaurant, this woman who had walked out on me for another man. Unaccountably, I feel that the guilt is all mine.
11
After work, I attend the rehearsals for Antony and Cleopatra, coping without embarrassing myself too badly—learning lines has never been my strong suit—and missing Jackie, whose lines are read in her absence by the assistant director. He’s a little man with a bald head and halitosis and imagining him as Cleo is kind of a stretch. It finishes, at last. I pass on the usual drinks session afterwards and head home. Alone in my apartment, I toast bread—careful of the mad machine this time—turn on the computer and sit in front of it to check my emails. At the same time, I flick on the TV so the evening news can play in the background. The emails are nothing spectacular. Something from a cousin who still lives in England. A couple from insurance agents that I delete unread. Down at the bottom of the screen, there’s a mail from someone calling himself UNDERDOGG with an attachment and, always watchful for viruses, I delete that one too without looking at the contents. These anonymous random mails seem to land in my in-box more regularly these days. So many viruses can copy themselves on from people you’ve never heard of that it’s stupid to take chances.
The TV’s still playing quietly in the background and something makes me tune into it. For the last few nights, the extraordinary events following Stephen Garner’s latest allegations of government misdoings have dominated the news, overshadowing the usual election hysteria and the reports of kidnapped babies and British royal family scandals. The government has continued to plead its innocence but even its own supporters are finding its protestations hard to believe.
The first excited words of the anchorman, however, indicate that last week’s news is at last being superseded.
“As the presidential election campaigns continue, fresh allegations of government corruption came to light earlier today. Late editions of the Washington Post carried reports of claims that government ministers and officials had been involved in financial misappropriation of funds over government defense contracts.”
The camera switches to another reporter, sitting grim-faced at a studio desk.
“The latest embarrassing disclosures for the government were written by a freelance journalist, Alexander Simmons. The report claims to detail startling information relating to the government’s controversial decision earlier this year to order five hundred jet trainer aircraft for the US Navy from the European corporation Able-Air.”
A film of a small dart-shaped jet aircraft appears, while the reporter continues to speak. “The deal was the subject of bitter congressional debate over claims that the trainers could have been sourced more cheaply from a number of American companies. At the time, there were claims in Congress that the trainer deal smacked of cronyism.”
The picture switches back to the commentator in the studio. “Allegations in this latest report now appear to compromise government officials and members of the current administration over their conduct in the evaluation of the aircraft tenders. The first of these claims concerns a late bid by Able-Air, when new prices were apparently accepted by the government after the closing date of the original tender. The newspaper report alleges that representatives of Able-Air were given information relating to the pricing of other tenders before making their adjusted bid.
“Following this, the report goes on, members of a government working party were flown to Able-Air factories in France to view the company’s product and, while there, were subjected to entertainment on a particularly lavish scale. The newspaper claims to have obtained information from France that some members of the delegation were given expensive presents and treated on at least one occasion to a party at an exclusive Paris brothel.
“Perhaps the most damaging allegation in the report is a claim that a senior member of the administration and two senior Department of Defense officials were, following their return to the United States, paid secret so-called consultancy fees of over a million dollars each by one of Able-Air’s subsidiary companies. The report alleges that these payments were direct bribes made in return for the recipients’ support of Able-Air’s proposal.
“We have journalist Alexander Simmons in our Chicago studio now to discuss these latest allegations.”
The camera angle shifts to show Simmons’s head filling a large television screen across the desk from the reporter.
“Mr Simmons,” the reporter starts, “can I ask, first of all, how you plan to substantiate this series of allegations?”
“Certainly.” Simmons’s soft tones are calm and measured. “We have in our possession computer records from Britain and France that support all the claims made in my article and which you have summarized over the last few minutes. In my opinion, these records are quite conclusive and incontrovertible.”
“This is obviously not the first time in recent weeks that information damaging to the government appears to have been leaked. Are you able to tell us how this information was obtained?”
“You’ll understand that, as a journalist, I have to protect my sources…”
***
More words. The scene shifts. The face of Alexander Simmons is replaced by that of Stephen Garner.
The politician looks reassuringly confident but restrained. He is again in a remote studio, facing the camera, his expression a perfect picture of an honest man trying to contain the outrage he feels.
“This administration,” he says, “has had the nerve to criticize my supporters for releasing confidential information about its abuses of power. Now we see more allegations from a totally different source. It seems that this government’s inability to conduct its affairs honestly is only matched by its inability to keep its own secrets!”
“What action do you expect the government to take in view of these allegations?”
A pause. Garner’s response is calm and measured. “What I expect, indeed demand, is that the President himself conducts a full inquiry into these allegations and comes clean with the people of this country about what has been happening behind his administration’s closed doors.”
“Do you think he will do that?”
“I doubt it. Despite its public image, it’s becoming apparent that, over the last few years, this administration has consistently misled the people who voted it into power. Members of the administration have clearly used their positions to line their own pockets at the tax-payers’ expense.”
“You say you doubt if there will be a full inquiry into your allegations. What do you think should happen otherwise?”
Garner gives the camera a grim smile. A hint of sorrow tinges the pragmatism. “I think that the people of this great nation of ours should give us their opinions through the ballot box. Specifically, I think they should elect a President who will give them an honest administration.
“If elected, I will personally pledge to hold a full investigation into this unfortunate affair and, more importantly still, I will pledge to stamp out corruption wherever it lurks. We offer this country a return to honest, trustworthy and open government.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr Garner.” A dry reporter. He turns back to face the camera. “The President has just returned from Europe and we have been trying to contact him to give him a chance to answer these allegations. So far, however, the White House has refused to answer our calls or to make any other comment on the s
ituation other than to say that a statement would be issued in due course. And now, back to Derek…”
***
I press a mute switch on the remote. I sit, stunned. It’s happening again. I wonder what Kathleen would find if we carried over our investigation to the Able-Air defense contracts.
I’m jarred out of contemplation by the ringing of the phone. In the quiet room it sounds unusually loud and I scramble out of the armchair to lift the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Ross? It’s Kathleen.” I can sense the concern—fear, even—in her voice. “Did you see it?”
“Yes. Obviously you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
“I’m sure I am. I don’t like this at all.”
“I know. I’m sorry I dragged you into it. Perhaps we should just forget the whole thing.”
“No, we can’t. I’d never forgive myself. I’m scared, but I have to know what’s going on. I think maybe we should get back to work and see what we can find in the network.”
***
By the time I’m at the front door of the office building, the shops are long since closed and the streets, jammed with rush hour traffic a few hours ago, contain an even flow of cars occupied by theater-goers, restaurant patrons and cruising teenagers. A few people walk along the street, window shopping or hurrying to engagements. I let myself into the lobby of the building. Glancing up, I am aware again of the blank stare of the surveillance camera. I cross the foyer to stand in the shadows as I wait for Kathleen.
Minutes later, she drives up and parks her car behind mine. I resist an urge to hurry forward and hold the door open for her, waiting instead, away from the gaze of the surveillance camera, until she has crossed the lobby floor and can no longer be seen from the street.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
Suddenly I feel astonishingly shy and realize that this is an awkward situation for her, too. She lowers her eyes for a moment, then looks coolly up into mine before walking to the door to the stairwell. I catch up with her and we walk up the stairs together. There’s no sound of other inhabitants in the darkened building. On our floor, we unlock doors and settle down in front of the computer. Kathleen pauses as she waits for the machine to go through its initialization routines, then starts to work at the key-board. She glances at me and talks as she types.
The Digital Dream Page 21
