Game of Greed

by Charlotte Larsen

  He wants no harm done to anybody. Really. All he wants is for people to behave in a way that enhances the common good, rather than capitalizing on other people’s misery. All he wants is a fair distribution, a world less torn apart into those few who have everything and the many who have nothing. If violence is to be applied, it must be truly and irrevocably the last means, the final option. He has thought of everything, but there is no way he’ll get Jo out of de Lingua’s reach without stealing her from under his nose. No amount of sweet-talking, no deals, no cunning, no tactics. Only activities in the night are left for him. Francis prays that the monks can pull it off without hurting anyone too badly. Otherwise, this will be an ongoing feud, and he will be just like the rest of them, using harmful means to serve his own interest. If Dhammakarati’s team applies the wrong amount of violence, he will be no better than most people: idealistic when the going is easy, opportunistic and self-serving when his desires are thwarted.

  Chapter 20

  Jo’s awakened from a light slumber by a hand over her mouth and a voice whispering, “Don’t be alarmed. Get up. Slowly and silently.” Later, she would question her memory as to whether she knew it was him before he even spoke, or whether she just wanted him so badly to come and get her out of there that her imagination ran wild.

  She sits up, swings her legs out of bed, and reaches out for her kimono in one fluid movement. Completely awake. A deep feeling of immense gratitude finds its way through her bloodstream, mixing with the increasing level of adrenaline. Dhammakarati averts his eyes from her exposed skin. Just a fraction too late. He pulls something out of a backpack and throws it on the bed. A dark sweatsuit with a hood and dark sneakers. She puts on the clothes and shoes quickly and follows him out of the bungalow.

  Passing through the garden, she says a silent goodbye to the frangipani and the thoughts she’s had in this garden. Dhammakarati walks up to the heavy front door and speaks softly. The door swings open, and she sees two dark figures moving swiftly ahead. Outside the door, two guards are slumped on the ground. Unconscious or dead, she can’t tell. Knowing Dhammakarati, she supposes they are unconscious, not dead. Now, though, she doesn’t care.

  Dhammakarati gestures for her to follow the men ahead of her, taking up the rear himself. She turns at one point and whispers, “What about Wharton?” but he shakes his head, putting a finger to his mouth. Silence is required. They run in a crouch across the lawns, crossing the grounds diagonally. A few times, she sees another guard lying supine on the ground.

  And then, before she knows it, she’s sitting in the back of a closed van, next to Wharton, who looks completely stunned. She allows herself a grateful smile at Dhammakarati. He nods curtly in response. For him, the mission is clearly still active. For her, a nightmare is over. During the hour-long ride, she can feel the adrenaline gradually disappearing from her body, leaving her completely and utterly exhausted.

  The sun is already high in the sky, getting into its stride, but as yet, not unbearably hot. It’s a beautiful time of day, still cool enough to think and breathe, and the rising sun enhances the vibrant colors of the flowers as if they’d spent the night longing for sun and are now anxious to put their best side forward.

  He sees her from a distance. A dark-clad figure, moving hesitantly up the path toward the house. He is waiting on the porch of her little house. He wonders why she hesitates. Is it because she is meeting him? Because she is committing to being back in the monastery? Or maybe it is something else entirely.

  But then, finally, she is in front of him. Arms limp at her sides. A blank face. Head falling slightly forward. A picture of submission, tiredness, hopelessness. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Francis gets up, grabs her by the shoulders, and leads her into the tiny bathroom. He pulls off her black sweatshirt and pants. She lets him undress her as if she were a child.

  Shooing a couple of roaches out of the bath, he pushes her gently under the steaming hot water. An unprecedented luxury in such a simple setting. He holds her there for maybe twenty minutes, getting drenched himself, not knowing whether the water streaming down her face is tears. Pulling her out, he wraps her in a bath towel, rubbing her arms, her back. Holding her tight. They stand there for a long time. Saying nothing. Then, “I want to sleep.” Her voice is small, weak. He leads her into the bedroom, tucks her in, pulls the curtains, and closes the door behind him.

  From time to time, he checks in on her. For hours, she doesn’t move. Her face is soft, vulnerable, almost beautiful. Her body seems smaller than usual, but that may just be because he’s rarely seen her at sleep.

  While she sleeps, he sits on the porch and drinks tea, thinking back to the first conversation they had during his plane ride to Copenhagen. Somewhere along the line, Schwartz made a move that Francis missed. Or misinterpreted. And perhaps he still does. Is it safe to conclude that Smith, Turner, and Stevenson is out of the woods? That by confronting the liabilities among the top partners, he has managed to block the risk of Schwartz getting to them? That is if Schwartz ever intended to go after the law firm the way he, Francis, had envisioned? At any rate, he might as well finish what he’s started. Going over the entire case, he makes notes of all the loose ends in order to pass them on to Thomas, who will follow up on each of the key players’ activities of the last few days. There is no reason to let these risks hang loose. It is too tempting for anyone, even if Schwartz never intended to expose these people.

  But if Schwartz is not interested in blowing the legal firm wide open through exposure of its weakest links, what then? What game is Schwartz playing? Why isolate one of Francis’s top agents and kill another? Was it a declaration of war? Or a diversion intended to get Francis to look internally while Schwartz plotted ahead? Or were the two cases Wharton’s disappearance and the attack on Francis’s organization unrelated? These and other scenarios float around Francis’s mind for hours until he decides that the answer will reveal itself eventually and that the only prudent thing to do now is to realign his organization by making sure everyone is rested, sharp, and ready. Thomas will check up on the lawyers they’d approached. Francis will just stay here, checking communications regularly and making sure Jo shakes off the nightmare.

  Much later, they share a simple meal of rice and curry, brought to them by one of the young monks. He recognizes this to be extraordinary service, that no matter who visits the monastery, they all participate in communal eating. He’s certain, however, that the honor is not for him.

  “I meant to get Wharton out of there,” Jo says out of the blue, despite the fact that they hadn’t discussed the case at all until now. Francis wins time by suggesting he will get a bottle of wine from the stash he keeps in his suitcase. Jo nods.

  “I really meant to get Wharton out of there,” she repeats, a stubborn tone in her voice when he returns with a bottle of red.

  “I know you did,” he says softly, cautiously. “But there was no way you could have done that. I mean, that compound was seriously protected. Very seriously. Nobody could have done that by themselves.” He pours, and raises his glass to her, hoping she will let it go.

  “You don’t understand, Francis. I meant to get him. That was why I went in in the first place, remember? I was supposed to go in, be on top of the situation, and anticipate any move de Lingua might make. But by the time he took me to his room in Mount Lavinia ”

  “He took you to his room?” Francis asks sharply.

  “Well, yes. He did. But he was a perfect gentleman.” She sips her wine, recalling the situation. Francis doesn’t know whether to pursue that line of questioning or not. He decides not to. It is not important.

  “De Lingua was a perfect gentleman, but he controlled the game from that moment onward. I was never in control, Francis!” Her voice is angry, hurt, and cold, and he detects the self-criticism that goes on inside her. The torment she has subjected herself to and will continue to for a long time. He knows there is really nothing he can say to ease that.

  “Jo, the
re is nothing we can do now but pick up where we left off and try to learn from this. We have not given up on either Schwartz or de Lingua.” He reaches over the small table, grabbing her shoulders. “We haven’t given up at all, Jo. But you need to let this experience go now. Tell it to me and then put it to rest.”

  She looks at him with something he hopes is trust. And only slowly does she begin to tell him about her captivity. Methodically, unemotionally, as if recounting any event in the field. But he knows her well enough to assess the enormous damage this experience has had on her. He is not certain what exactly it is that has affected her so very deeply, whether it is because it was her first experience of being held captive, or if she sees it as an affront to her professionalism that she should have underestimated Pierre de Lingua so enormously. Or perhaps something happened to her there that she is not telling him. Francis gets the distinct feeling that she is leaving something out. But whatever the reason, she is damaged. Badly. And now is not the time for him to examine the course, but rather to ensure she regains her self-confidence and peace of mind as quickly as possible.

  Jo is vague about how she managed to get access to a phone. How could she possibly tell him the way she’d degraded herself? The only way to regain her self-esteem is to bury that memory deep within her, so deep that it will never surface in her consciousness, let alone slip into a conversation. This is her secret, and she intends to keep it. This is what happens to agents when they’ve been in the field long enough; they develop an armor of repressed memories, images, and feelings that no other person who wasn’t there will ever be able to understand. They bury these inhuman memories deeply because otherwise, they will erode the agent’s idea of self, his identity, and his concept of who he is.

  So, Jo doesn’t tell. She fends off Francis’s persistent attempts to get her to talk. He may set store by the therapeutic tradition of letting things out in the open. But she doesn’t. Not anymore.

  Time passes. Days go by. They spend most of their time in her little house. In her bed, really. Except occasionally she goes to the great meditation hall to sit for a while, or she attends evening Puja, and a few times a day Francis wanders down to the communication center. It is a peaceful time.

  Dhammakarati came back for a debriefing but took off again soon. She doesn’t know where he is, but it’s probably for the best that he is not here right now to witness the way she and Francis spend their time. Jo is well aware that Francis stays mainly to make sure she’s getting stronger and leaving the experience behind, but she does detect an almost childish enjoyment in him. Like a kid playing hooky, he is more carefree than she’s ever seen him. He seems to take great pleasure in the monastery, the grounds, the flowers, the birds. He is solicitous toward the monks and nuns and shows respect for the master. This endears him to her. Seeing this side of him is such a pleasure that it almost makes up for the days in captivity.

  It is a beautiful time. A time that they will never have again. A little Eden away from the world, away from their respective identities. They are just a man and a woman, living a simple life, day by day, surrounded by beauty. Suffused with the gratitude of transient love. Forced to exist in the eternal moment, both realizing that someday very soon, they’ll have to leave.

  Chapter 21

  In SoHo, two weeks later, Francis is not surprised when Angela hands him an invitation one morning. He reads it, then gestures for her to join him at the breakfast table. “Listen to this, Angela. Schwartz is holding a conference to hail Remington Partners as the number one global player! Whatever is he playing at?” Francis shakes his head, but whether from indulgence or disbelief, even Angela can’t tell.

  “I wonder how he is going to pull it off. The relaunch of Remington Partners as the top global law firm is hardly possible, since Smith, Turner, and Stevenson is not only still in business, but stronger than ever after the errant partners returned to the right side of the law and morality. Since Schwartz has the gall to invite me personally, he must have something he wants me to see, obviously. And it can only be something that puts him ahead of the game.” Francis’s laugh is cynical. “Francis Scott-Wren plus one! I am inclined to bring Jo, just to spite him.”

  “That would hardly be wise,” Angela says in her dry, unimpressed manner. “Is there anything you want me to do, Francis?”

  “Yes, stay a while and help me sort this out. Between your knowledge of me and my knowledge of Schwartz, we should be able to detect what he’s up to.” Angela smiles, saying nothing. She’s used to being called to stand in for Jo or Thomas, or even for Dhammakarati if Francis needs to discuss the tactics of a case. She has few illusions as to her actual contribution but knows that Francis sometimes gets stuck in his own thinking and requires someone to point out the inconsistencies of his conclusions.

  Francis sips his coffee and takes a bite of toast. “So, let us assume the topic of the conference is still to launch Remington Partners as the number-one legal company. What options does he have?” Angela waits for him to answer his own question. “Well, he can create some farfetched scenario in which he artificially divides the legal market into specialties and hence insists Remington is indeed number one.” He looks inquiringly at Angela. This is where she comes in.

  “Does Remington actually have market dominance in any specialties?” she asks obligingly.

  Francis thinks for a while and then shakes his head. “No. They don’t. As a matter of fact, they have positioned themselves as a full-service operation, meaning a broad, but consequently not deep, specialty in all major legal areas. But another, similar stunt would be to rename global to local. Schwartz could indeed position Remington as the number-one European firm. That much is true. But even with fanfare and balloons and festivities, that would hardly fool anybody, let alone the market analysts.”

  Angela shakes her head in sympathy. Urging him on.

  “All right, he could find somebody else to team up with. That is, merging Remington with another large firm and then creating a truly massive player. That could be a viable option for him.”

  “And who might that be?” Angela asks.

  “I reckon there are about four firms globally that would qualify in terms of size and reputation, but whether there would be a match between Remington and any of these, I don’t know. And if we take this thinking forward, he might be looking at as many as twenty slightly smaller firms if he were to merge with not one, but two.”

  Angela gets up. “I’ll get Thomas on the line for you.”

  “You’re a doll.” Francis smiles indulgently at her before returning to his breakfast. A slightly happier man now, believing he now has an idea about the game Schwartz is playing. A merger is the only way Schwartz can turn his defeat into a victory. It’s got to be what the man is up to. God, these eggs are good!

  The conversation with Thomas is brief to the point of rudeness. But Francis suspects that Thomas needs to redeem himself from the less-than-impressive work he and his research team did during the captivity of Jo and that he will work hard and fast to uncover the most probable match with Remington.

  “You’re not going to like this, F.” Thomas is back on the secure line a few hours later, sounding unusually reticent. Francis tells him to skip the preliminaries.

  “It would seem that Remington Partners is merging with…” Here, Thomas pauses as if to collect himself. “Smith, Turner, and ”

  “What?” Francis yells. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, unfortunately, we are. As you know, we’ve had Wharton’s various phones under surveillance since he was released.”

  “No, I bloody well didn’t know that!” Francis sneers. “But go on, man.”

  “I’m sorry; I thought you knew. Anyway, like I said, we’ve kept a close ear on what goes on in Wharton’s life. Just to make sure he was safe, you know? Nothing much has gone on. All in all, there hasn’t been much of interest to anybody but Wharton and his family. Pretty everyday stuff. Nothing to get alarmed about. Anxious calls from his wife to his
cell about when he will be home. Boring calls to and from the office. Polite chitchat and solicited advice to clients. You know, that kind of stuff. Not much going on that shouldn’t be going on with the top executive of a major law firm. So, we probably slipped up a bit…” Thomas hesitates, waiting for some kind of reaction, which Francis promptly delivers.

  “Thomas, when this is over, we need to discuss the structure of your research team. They are simply not up to the task. But get back to Wharton.”

  Thomas draws a faint sigh of relief; Francis blames the team, not him. “Fortunately, our new gear stores as well as records, so it was quite easy to go back over the calls and check whether we had missed anything significant.”

  Francis interrupts, “Did you start with Wharton before you checked out any of the other players?”

  “No, we did an initial likeliness analysis for all the major players, and I can send you the results of that in a minute. There are a couple of companies that might easily be contenders. And Smith, Turner, and Stevenson was indeed one of them, so somebody came up with the idea of going back through Wharton’s conversations and listening to them with that new information in mind, improbable as it sounded then. So, we did, and five different calls stood out. All them were received from an unlisted number or rather, a number we haven’t been able to trace but they all referred to ‘our deal’ and contained various logistics concerning that. Obviously, the calls were somewhat unintelligible if you didn’t know what exactly they were talking about. Now it makes a lot of sense, though. And the kicker is, we were able to identify Schwartz by using voice-recognition software.”