[Jack Emery 01.0] The Foundation

by Steve P Vincent

  He didn’t regret the choices he’d made at various points to save himself, his company and his staff. He consoled himself with the fact that, in a time of great stress, he’d done what he’d had to do. Not everyone in his position would have. But the deal with the Chinese, on the back of the one with Dominique, had placed him in an impossible bind. He felt the agreements strangling the life out of him.

  He’d hoped the arrangement would last a little longer, but it wouldn’t. He felt old, and knew that if there was to be a reckoning for the decisions he’d made, it may as well be now. With another sigh, he opened his eyes and reached for the phone on the desk. He dialed in a number he’d committed to memory and switched the call to loudspeaker. The phone rang and Ernest used this time to steel himself for the coming conversation.

  “Hello, Ernest.” Dominique’s tone was impatient. “I hope this is important.”

  “It is. I need to renegotiate our deal.”

  She gave a small laugh. “Why would you need to do that?”

  He rubbed his head. “I’m in a hopeless situation, but I want to honor both our agreement and another I’ve made. I can only do that if you’re flexible.”

  There was a pause. “Being flexible wouldn’t really be in my interests, Ernest, nor would it lead to you honoring our agreement in any way. My terms were clear. I delivered. The Senate inquiry has gone away and your company is off the hook in the United States. I expect you to continue to live up to your end of the bargain.”

  Any hope he’d had for a reasonable negotiation was out the window. “I had all good intentions of honoring my agreement with you, but things have changed.”

  She laughed again. “The Chinese? Yes, Ernest.”

  He was genuinely shocked. “You know? How?”

  “I know you made a deal with the Chinese, that’s clear. I don’t know why, nor do I care.”

  He changed the topic. “I don’t like being backed into corners and forced into impossible decisions I don’t want to make.”

  “I know.” She sounded chirpy again. “And it’s precisely why I used the Senate inquiry to bait you. And now you’re mine, to be blunt.”

  “What I’m proposing will help you retain some day-to-day control over editorial direction. It’s the best I can offer.”

  “Not interested.”

  “I suggest you think again. You’ve got me, but I do have the means to slip your net. If I step down from the board entirely, then you’re left with nothing.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I love the fishing analogies. Let’s keep those going. Think of me as a fisherman, which I’m not, by the way. I’ve just caught a whale—that’s you—and now it’s struggling on the hook, fighting to get free. At the same time, the whale—that’s you, remember—got your tail caught on another hook—the Chinese.”

  Ernest was growing tired of her, but hid his annoyance. “I don’t quite understand the point.”

  “The point is: I’ve caught the big daddy, the trophy. I don’t care what else happens, there’s no way I’m letting go, no matter how much it wriggles. The Chinese can rip your fucking tail off, but your head and your company are mine. I’ll rip your head off if I have to, but you’re not getting away.”

  He swung back in his chair again while he thought. He ran through as many scenarios as possible, but he saw no other option than to break faith with one side. Having decided that, it became an exercise in risk assessment: while crossing Dominique would cause him pain, crossing the Chinese government in the current climate was unthinkable. He’d take the angry wolf pack over an angry dragon.

  “Ernest?” She sounded annoyed. “Is that all?”

  He gave a long sigh. “Yes. We’re done unless you’re willing to negotiate. Contact me.”

  “You’ve got little time to change your mind, Ernest. Don’t throw everything away.”

  He was about to reply when the call cut out.

  Michelle swirled the amber liquid around in the tumbler then brought it up to her nose. She inhaled the scent of the whisky before lifting it to her lips and taking a small sip, then another. When her glass was empty, she leaned forward and placed it on the table. She smiled and leaned back, looking down the length of the table at the assembled men and women, each the leader of a Foundation cell. For all intents and purposes, this was the entire leadership of the Foundation now that Anton was gone.

  “Anton is dead.”

  She kept a passive face as the cell leaders digested the news. A few gasped, another swore under his breath and the others just stared at her or looked around the table. She waited as the news sank in and for the most animated of them to regain their composure.

  The leader of the Foundation’s West Coast cell, Vanessa Dunstan, leaned forward. “How? Why weren’t we told right away?”

  Michelle considered her response. She knew that if there was going to be civil war among the Foundation in the aftermath of her actions, it would be led from California. Dunstan and her cell were the furthest from the Foundation’s power centers of Washington and New York, both geographically and ideologically. She’d opposed some of the more extreme methods employed in recent years, and made no secret of it.

  “I didn’t want anything captured electronically.” Michelle shrugged. “I also decided it was better to bring everyone together to sort out succession quickly and cleanly.”

  Dunstan rolled her eyes. “I bet you did. You still haven’t answered the how.”

  Michelle knew that Dunstan had been close to Anton, and that intimacy had kept her adventures at least partially in check over the years. While it was unlikely that Michelle would get the same level of cooperation, she also knew that there was no sense hiding from the truth. Some of it, anyway. They could never know the real reason she’d killed him: that he’d tried to take her out, and she’d taken control as a result.

  “I killed him.” She looked Dunstan straight in the eye. Her tone was even, completely matter of fact. “I discovered evidence that he was acting unilaterally to explode a nuclear device in Cleveland, and paint Islamic fundamentalists as responsible.”

  The room erupted. Michelle had wondered if any of them would assault her, though she had a fully armed Andrei Shadd a shout away. The usually reserved head of the Midwest cell, Mike Douglas, tapped his finger on the table, increasingly loudly, to get the attention of the room.

  Once the room was silent, he spoke. “And why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, but if he’d succeeded, it would have diverted the attention of the President and his administration from the war with China, and placed America’s sight on the wrong target. It also would have made a mess of our efforts to get a large number of us into Congress.”

  Douglas nodded. “It sure fucking would have.”

  “We’ve wasted a decade and trillions fighting in meaningless deserts, more of that needs to be avoided.”

  A look of grave doubt appeared on Dunstan’s face, her forehead creasing with stress lines. “Very well, if it’s as you say, it needed to be done. I trust you have proof?”

  Michelle shrugged. “Plenty—I’ll make it available to you all after the meeting. I regret it, but my actions were necessary. We set it up to look like a street assault.”

  Dunstan nodded. None of the others spoke up. She’d won.

  “Very well, if there’s nothing else on that matter, we need to elect a director. There are too many balls in the air to not have someone in charge of the juggling.”

  There were nods up and down the table. The people gathered were used to quick-moving situations. Anton’s death was forgotten.

  The head of the New England cell, Bruno Cagliari, cleared his throat. “I’d like to nominate Michelle. She has the experience, contacts and the most in-depth knowledge of our current operations. Our cause will thrive or die on the success of a plan she and Anton developed. I throw New England’s lot in with her.”

  Michelle gave Cagliari a barely perceptible nod. He’d be rewarded later. “Thanks, Bruno. I accept the n
omination, but I’d also invite others to put their hand up.”

  She looked down the length of the table and the representatives remained silent. She had them. Apparently the weight of her claim, along with the lack of support from the others, had aborted any power play by Dunstan. She felt the rewards were finally coming her way, after so long and so much planning. When no other nomination came forward, others began to swear their cells over to her.

  “The Mid-Atlantic cell is yours.”

  “The South East is on board with the new administration.”

  Michelle had a nervous moment when the leaders of the South and Midwest cells, Duke Callister and Mike Douglas, shared a wordless exchange. They were traditionalists and the staunchest conservatives, even in a room full of them, and she was not sure they’d go for a woman who’d just murdered the boss. Finally, Callister leaned in and whispered something in Douglas’ ear. Michelle exhaled deeply when Douglas nodded.

  Duke Callister spoke for the two of them. “If this evidence is as compelling as you say it is, Michelle, we’re on side. But you’d better hope it is.”

  She nodded and smiled at him. “It is. I appreciate your support, Duke.”

  Michelle knew she was close, all she needed was the Mountain cell and Dunstan’s West Coast. With the others on board—and the South in particular—she knew they didn’t have the strength to resist her control. She looked at Dunstan and then at Mark Harrison, head of the Mountain cell.

  Harrison looked at Dunstan, then shrugged. “Okay, but I don’t like it. You’ve got an inch of wriggle room, Michelle.”

  That left Dunstan. Michelle stared at her, right down the other end of the table. “Vanessa?”

  Dunstan sighed. “Okay.”

  Michelle was elated, but didn’t show her emotion. “Okay. Next order of business is an update from the director. In short, everything is on track and we’re about to see the rewards. We’re unblemished by Shanghai and the war has started nicely. The next part of our plan is more of us in Congress. I’d ask that you all focus your efforts on that.”

  Dunstan scoffed. “I never understood this part of the plan, and how you expect the media to warm to our agenda, given their lack of enthusiasm in the past.”

  “Easy. Through control of EMCorp. Which I’ve had for the last few weeks.”

  She smiled, and enjoyed their reaction. They were more shocked by this news than they’d been about Anton’s death. She omitted the fact that the head of EMCorp was being a particularly large pain in her behind and might slip loose. This was no time to dilute her authority or have them doubt her achievements.

  She stood and held her hands out. “We’ve got our endgame within reach and now we’ve got the means to broadcast exactly what we want.”

  Douglas nodded and crossed his arms. Cagliari smiled. Even Vanessa Dunstan looked content as she spoke. “Well done, Michelle.”

  “Right, now that’s covered, I think it’s a good time to take a five-minute break. We’ll discuss regular business after that.”

  She didn’t wait for agreement. She left the room, aware that nobody else had moved. As soon as she was outside, they’d be gossiping about the changed environment, but she had control. Once out of earshot, she pulled her phone from her purse and dialed.

  Through her friendship with Sarah McDowell, Michelle had put contingencies in place for controlling EMCorp if Ernest got out of control. Now she was ascendant in the Foundation, she couldn’t risk him following through on his threats from earlier in the day. Losing EMCorp after announcing it was in hand would be a loss of prestige with her colleagues. It would also make achieving her agenda all the more difficult. Better to cut her losses. If she couldn’t have him, nobody could.

  “Chen? It’s me. I need you on a flight to New York. I’ve got another job for you.”

  She hung up. Just as the Foundation meeting was about to reconvene, she wrote a quick text. Sarah, let’s catch up, I’ve got some wonderful news for you.

  15

  As the war continues to escalate between the armed forces of the United States and China, Americans pause for a few hours today for the beginning of the Major League Baseball playoffs. The build-up has been subdued this year, but that’s done nothing to dull the excitement of the New York Yankees fans, who are out in force to cheer on their home-town team against the visiting Red Sox. This year’s coverage will include crosses to US troops serving in Taiwan, in Japan and on ships in the South China Sea, and the broadcast will include a special tribute to their service.

  Michael Pompei, Chicago Tribune, October 5

  Jack was impressed. While he’d only agreed to attend the first game of the American League Division Series out of a sense of obligation to Ernest, since he’d arrived at Yankee Stadium with Celeste they’d each had a smile on their faces. It seemed like the perfect way to finish their recovery. While the nightmares of their torture remained, some of the physical damage had healed. Jack felt almost human again.

  Once a stadium staff member had spotted the lanyards they were wearing, they’d been escorted to the cavernous EMCorp corporate suite. Jack felt like some sort of king as they walked through the double doors, even though he knew the service being heaped upon him was only because of the color of his pass.

  He turned to Celeste. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

  The suite was deep and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling glass on one side showing off the field. On the far wall was a full-service bar. Guests had a choice of sitting at one of the dozen or so dining tables or in the leather recliners along the window with a view of the field. The room was already full, though it was over an hour until the opening pitch.

  “Sure is.” Celeste beamed as she eyed the bar. “It’s going to be great. Want a drink?”

  Jack hesitated. “You go ahead.”

  She smiled and left him. A few months earlier, he’d have been up for the free booze. Now, he just wanted to sit in a corner, out of the way, until the game started. He avoided the large huddles of people making small talk and ignored the glances from the other guests as he crossed the room. Those who knew him were probably curious about his wellbeing, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment.

  He nearly managed to find his way to a table and sit down when he was intercepted by a tall man with a broad smile and newsreader good looks, who stretched out his hand. “Warwick Jenkins. I work at the Boston Herald. You’re Jack Emery, right? Hell of a story, you making it off that carrier.”

  Jack was surprised that Jenkins knew so much, given the details of their release had been tightly guarded. Jack watched the man’s eyes drift to the cuts and bruises on his face. For the first time, he knew how an attractive woman felt. Jenkins’ roaming eyes felt like an assault that he was powerless to stop without being rude. He didn’t know Jenkins, but if he was here then he was important to Ernest.

  Jack gave his best attempt at a smile and shook Jenkins’ hand. “Just lucky, I guess. Lots of guys didn’t make it.”

  “You’re just modest, son.”

  Jack tried to change the topic. “Surprised you’re not in the office, if not for the injuries, I’m sure I’d be missing the game.”

  “The war? We’ve got that covered. I don’t miss a Red Sox playoff game for anything short of nuclear winter. You watch, tonight the war will be number two on the news.” Jenkins laughed. “Say, I’d love you to meet my wife. We’re suckers for an Australian accent. Spent some time in Sydney a few years ago.”

  Jack’s mind was scrambling to find an excuse when Ernest appeared alongside them. It was the first time Jack had seen him since his return from China. He nearly blurted out his thanks. Though he knew the price for his release must have been high, he didn’t know exactly what Ernest had had to agree to. He intended to find out and somehow repay him, but for now he needed to stay professional.

  Ernest patted him on the back. “Hi, Warwick, good to see you. Jack, I’d like you to meet someone, he’ll be here in a minute.”

  Jenk
ins clearly knew how to take a hint. “Mr McDowell, good to see you, and Jack, good to meet you. Let’s talk soon.”

  Jack exhaled and smiled at Ernest as Jenkins backed away from the conversation. “Thanks for the intervention.”

  Ernest patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. I didn’t invite you here to be a social piñata. How are you, Jack?”

  Jack hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I’m out of there, thanks to you, that’s what counts. I wanted to say thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Jack leaned in closer. “I have a fair idea why I was tortured. What did they extract out of you to secure my release?”

  Ernest’s eyes narrowed and he started to say something, but hesitated. “That’s not your concern, Jack. Relax and enjoy yourself. I need to find my daughter.”

  Chen ceased his climb up the ladder and opened the access hatch as quietly as possible. He pulled himself through, closed the hatch carefully and locked it behind him. He had plenty of time to prepare. The day had gone to plan and he was slightly ahead of schedule with the game about to start.

  He walked to the far side of the space. The walls were covered in dust and grime, as well as an amusing cartoon some tradesman had made years ago, presumably of his employer. He was glad to see the case he needed was on the concrete floor. He next looked to the small ventilation hatch on one wall and saw the key to the whole plan—the height and breadth of view the steel grate provided. It was as perfect as Michelle Dominique’s representative has promised.

  Following the job at Anton Clark’s house, he’d agreed to her request for one more piece of wet work. In his head, he’d owed her one job for saving his family and another for saving him after the Shanghai attacks. If she’d wanted to, she could have hung them out to dry. Chen was an honorable man. He paid his debts. After this, they’d be square.