Lords of Corruption

by Kyle Mills

  "Aleksei! It's good to see you!" Trent said, a little too loud to seem calm and a little too cheerful to sound spontaneous. If there was one positive thing about spending so much of his time in one of Africa's more godforsaken backwaters, it was that Fedorov almost never set foot on the continent.

  Unfortunately, this was not true of NewAfrica's offices in New York. Despite endless hints designed to prevent these visits, Fedorov seemed to enjoy using them as proof that he was untouchable. And maybe he was. But why endanger everyone else?

  Fedorov shook Trent's outstretched hand disinterestedly, his deep-set eyes taking in the surroundings more like a camera than the windows to the soul that poets imagined. They twitched back and forth over a long, straight nose that hinted at his foreign birth and an expression that suggested it hadn't been a pleasant one.

  "We've had a thirteen percent drop in donations. Why?"

  It seemed that his accent became more imperceptible every time they met, and that was worrying. Fedorov had relocated to the United States less than ten years ago and now, at age fifty, was close to perfecting his fifth language. Trent had been blessed with an impressive intellect that had proven indispensable over his lifetime, but it also tended to make him uncomfortable around those rare people who were clearly smarter than he was. It was an advantage he was loath to give up.

  "Let's go back to my office, Aleksei. I'll make you a drink."

  "First you'll answer my goddamn question."

  "We've got a few things working against us," Trent said as he started back down the hall, anxious to get Fedorov away from the windows looking out onto the street. "And they're all hard to control. The U. S. economy's weakened pretty significantly, and that makes people feel less generous. Also, after getting a good run in the press for a while, the problems in Africa are taking a back burner. The Middle East, political scandals, even global warming are getting better ratings."

  He stopped and let Fedorov go through the office door first. Trent couldn't read the man's expression in the dim light and had no idea how he was taking what he was hearing, making it impossible to properly adjust his tone and approach.

  "We're doing what we can, Aleksei, but . . ." He let his voice trail off as he poured two whiskeys and Fedorov wandered around the office examining things he clearly had no interest in.

  After a few seconds, the silence became uncomfortable and Trent found himself speaking again, purely out of nervousness. "We're working on a large partnership with USAID right now, and I'm optimistic about it. We'd be the primary administrators of a twenty-million-dollar project. Right now it's between us and CARE, but I think we'll get it. The danger is more that the U. S. will pull funding entirely. Conditions in the part of Africa where we operate in are getting worse, and it's hard to convince people that the money invested there is going to make a difference."

  Fedorov turned and accepted the whiskey Trent held out to him, looking down at it as though he thought it might be poisoned. "I saw your new campaign, Stephen. It's shit. Another bunch of happy niggers with shovels."

  "Aleksei --"

  " 'Our work is done,' " Fedorov continued, cutting him off. "Is that what you're trying to say? Because that's what I'm hearing -- 'Africans so happy and healthy that I think they should be giving me money.' "

  "Like I was saying, Aleksei, we have to show a certain amount of progress and stability. Our focus groups --"

  "Your focus groups?" Fedorov shouted. "Why don't you give me your focus groups' addresses? Then I can have a conversation with them about why I'm not making any money."

  "I think --"

  "Am I wrong, Stephen? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me that I can't do simple math." "That's not what I'm saying --"

  "Don't we have photos of dead children? Why are you the only person on the fucking planet who can't find dead Africans to take pictures of? You can't walk ten feet in that country without tripping over one."

  "It isn't --"

  "Remember that picture of the starving kid with the vulture standing next to him? That made people want to give money."

  Trent tried to remember how many times that particular image had come up and how many times he was going to have to defend his decision not to use something similar.

  "Going with something like that is going to work against us in this situation, Aleksei. And we'd have to deal with a certain amount of backlash and scrutiny that I think we both agree we don't need. We have to be very careful about controlling our image."

  "Charities can't run on good intentions, Stephen."

  It was impossible to know if the statement's irony was intended or if an acknowledgment of the joke was expected. In the end, Trent decided to pretend he hadn't heard. "We're still refining the campaign, and I agree that it could be more hard-hitting. Give us another week, and we'll send you something more polished. I think you'll be happy with it."

  Fedorov clearly wasn't convinced but was willing to move on. "Have you hired someone to take over the farming project?"

  "I met with the last candidate yesterday." "And?"

  Trent sat down at his desk and slid a file across it. Fedorov made no move to pick it up, glancing blandly at it from his position in the center of the office.

  "His name is Josh Hagarty," Trent said. "He graduated from high school with a very average GPA -- essentially As in things he was interested in and Ds in things he wasn't. After that he went to work for an auto shop near his home and, well, wasn't exactly a model citizen."

  Fedorov remained silent, but for the first time that night, his expression showed a hint of approval.

  "He had a few minor arrests for things like disorderly conduct and marijuana possession, but nothing stuck. Then one night, he and a friend stopped at a liquor store. Josh stayed in the car while his friend went in and robbed the store at gunpoint."

  "But Hagarty just sat in the car?"

  Trent nodded. "When the police started chasing them, though, he tried to escape. And because he was drunk at the time, he hit a tree, and both he and his friend ended up pretty seriously injured."

  "How much time did he do?"

  "He cut a deal and only spent a year inside. His friend swore that Josh had no idea he was going to rob the store and that Josh screamed at him the entire time they were running from the police."

  Fedorov seemed disappointed. "And what did he learn in prison?"

  "Apparently that he didn't want to go back. When he was released, he enrolled in a community college, got straight As, transferred to a four-year college, and graduated near the top of his class in engineering."

  "He didn't find Jesus, did he? I hate those fucking people."

  "He doesn't attend church, and there's no mention of religiosity from our private investigators."

  Fedorov nodded noncommittally.

  "Because of his background, he didn't get any good job offers, and that prompted him to pursue an MBA. He's just now graduating, again near the top of his class, despite holding a full-time job the entire time."

  "And?"

  "And he's drowning in student loans and every other kind of debt. He has a sister he's extremely close to who'll be graduating from high school next year, and he doesn't have the money to send her to college."

  "Are any other companies sniffing around him?"

  "He's had a fair number of interviews, but even with his qualifications, his background has kept him from getting any offers. He does have a meeting next week with a small company near his school called Alder Data Systems. They don't have a terribly sophisticated hiring process, and according to our people, they may have overlooked his problems with the law."

  "I take it we're going to fix that?"

  "It's being taken care of as we speak."

  "I'm not impressed, Stephen. After all the time and money we've spent on this search, this is the best you can do?"

  If there was one universal truth, it was that Fedorov was never satisfied.

  "There's no such thing as a perfect candidate, Aleksei, but he's sm
art as hell, charismatic, good-looking, and well-educated. More importantly, he's desperate -- for money, to rise above his upbringing, to prove he's changed. He's no angel, and he has a sister who's important to him. I'm not sure it would be possible to find someone who fits the profile you created any better."

  Fedorov's expression darkened subtly. "Because of a few minor scrapes with the law and the fact that he was driving the wrong car at the wrong time?"

  "There's only so far we can go down that path, Aleksei. I can sell Josh to the board as a redemption story. And if it ever comes up, I can play the same card with the press. If we go with someone whose background is any worse, it's going to generate questions that aren't so easily answered."

  "More attention than we got from that little saint you hired before? I told you he would be a problem. But you didn't listen to me."

  "You have to understand that --"

  "What I understand," he interrupted, "is that I'm not here to fix your fucking mistakes. What you should understand is that I'm holding you personally responsible this time. Do you understand me? Personally responsible."

  Chapter 4.

  "Thanks for the ride, man." Josh slapped the side of the old pickup, and the driver pulled away, leaving him on the side of the deserted road with nothing but the duffel slung over his shoulder.

  The leaves were starting to change, and they crunched beneath his feet as he made his way down a wide dirt track that split off from the asphalt. The sun hadn't hit the mountains yet, but when it did, the still air would turn cold quickly. He increased his pace, intent on making it home before he had to dig around for a jacket.

  He'd exchanged the plane ticket from New York back to school for one to Kentucky. His finals were done, and he'd decided that the tiny fall graduation ceremony would be more depressing than uplifting, so it was a good time to squeeze in a trip home. Whether it would be a quick visit before starting his life or a permanent return to his disastrous past was yet to be seen. No point in dwelling on that now, though. Plenty of time to wallow later.

  His sister hadn't been at the airport to pick him up as agreed, and when he'd called, he'd found that the phone was out of service. Not that this was necessarily a cause for alarm. The old Ford he'd scammed from an auto shop he'd worked for had probably broken down again, and the phone service was always in the process of being cut off or reinstated. But there was no point in lamenting that, either. It was just the way things were. Positive thoughts, he told himself. Positive thoughts.

  It was easy to forget how beautiful Kentucky was, but he was quickly reminded whenever he returned. The sugar maples were dense and vibrant on the sides of the road, marred only by the occasional poorly maintained trailer home. He waved to the few people who were outdoors, and they waved back unenthusiastically. Most he'd known since he was a kid, but he'd never really fit in. He still didn't.

  His lunch with Stephen Trent had gone even better than the interview, and it was hard not to let his guard down, to fantasize about being offered the job at NewAfrica. Or maybe "romanticize" would be a better word. Josh Hagarty: World Traveler. International Sophisticate. Perhaps even Jet-Setter. The idea of actually going somewhere, seeing the world, had never occurred to him. But now that it did, he had to admit that it was just a little bit appealing.

  Another fifteen minutes passed before he crested a hill and spotted a teenaged girl reading a book beneath a shedding tree. Laura.

  Instead of immediately jumping up, she sat there contemplating his approach. It wasn't lack of excitement, he knew, but just the way his sister was.

  "I'm sorry I wasn't there to pick you up, Josh."

  She spoke with a slow, soft cadence made necessary by the fact that she considered every word -- a trait she'd had since she'd first learned to talk.

  Laura had been born more than a year after their mother's third divorce, at a time when she couldn't handle a new baby. Josh had only been seven, but he'd taken on virtually everything relating to the raising of his new half-sister. And despite the crappy job he'd done, she'd turned out to be the best person he knew.

  "I'll eventually find it in my heart to forgive you. Now give me a hug."

  When they embraced, she felt frailer than usual. But he always thought that. It was guilt more than anything -- for being too young to be a real father. For not taking her away from all this long ago. And now for the likelihood that he would fail her again.

  "You look good," she said, pulling away and looking up at him, her light-blue eyes, blond hair, and pale complexion washing out even more in the flattening sunlight. "Imagine. A Hagarty with a master's degree."

  "Seems unlikely, doesn't it?"

  "And how goes pimping yourself to the man?"

  He laughed and took her hand as they started up the road. At seventeen, she was already a senior and seemed to have read every book ever written. He'd never figured out who her father was, and their mom wasn't talking. To this day, whenever he was in town, he was always on the lookout for blond men with the personality of a sarcastic Buddha. So far, zip.

  "I've got some good offers, but I'm waiting for all of them to come in."

  "Anything you'd love? Something that would make you happy?"

  He hated lying to her and had to be careful not to exhibit the list of tells that she had learned years ago. "They're all pretty good, but there's a lot to think about. Money, location, opportunity for advancement."

  "Fun?"

  "As far as I'm concerned, anything that involves an obscene amount of money is fun."

  She squeezed his hand, not looking completely convinced. "We're going to be okay, Josh. No matter what you decide."

  "We don't deserve to be okay. We deserve to be great. And that's what's going to happen, right?"

  She didn't respond.

  "Right?" he repeated.

  "Tell me about New York."

  "It's really tall." He glanced over at her and once again regretted not being more insistent that she come live with him at school. She'd dug her heels in, and no amount of begging, yelling, or pictures of opulent local high schools had even made a dent.

  "Tall? That's all you have to say? It was tall? What did you do? What did you see? Did you go to MoMA?"

  She grimaced. "What about the Statue of Liberty? Did you know the French gave us that?"

  "No and no."

  "Did you see a play before you left?" "Uh-uh."

  "Geez, Josh. All that education and still a Philistine."

  "Philistine? Jesus Christ, Laura, act your age. Use 'like' every other word. Talk about how lame your boyfriend is. You're creeping me out."

  That actually made her laugh. It was a sound that hadn't really changed much since she was a baby, a rare and muffled gurgle that came mostly through her nose. It wasn't that she didn't have a cheerful soul. She was just discerning about what she thought was funny.

  "What about you, kid? How are things going with you? I see the phone's out again."

  "It'll be reconnected next week. We were just a little late. Things are okay. Nothing much changes, you know?"

  He'd learned long ago that whenever she used the phrase "you know," she meant the opposite of whatever statement preceded it. Bad news would eventually follow.

  "You're still doing okay in school?" he probed. "Valedictorian, right? Scholarship material?"

  "What scholarship? You're going to be rich, right?"

  "Don't evade the question."

  "It's still between me and Erica Pratt."

  He forced himself to shrug casually, though his stomach had cinched down a few notches. "Hey, no pressure. That girl's folks are richer than God, and she's two years older than you."

  "It's not the two years, it's the rich part that's the problem. Her 'tutor,' " she said, making quotation marks with her fingers, "does all her homework and papers, and she cheats on the tests. Word is that her dad's car dealership isn't doing so hot, though. So I'm hoping he's gonna have to start hiring dumber tutors."

  "Are you still wor
king?"

  "At the grocery store. They're nice."

  The trailer that was his ancestral home became visible through the trees, and he slowed a bit, concerned that he still hadn't been able to ferret out what she wasn't telling him. Oh, God. She couldn't be pregnant, could she?

  The tightness in his stomach suddenly started to feel like an ulcer in the making, and he silently repeated to himself that Laura was a smart girl with a historical distaste for the boys she went to high school with. How fast did things like that change? Hormones were powerful and unpredictable things.

  He pointed numbly to the empty clearing where the car was usually parked. "Where's the Granada?" he said, trying to force out the doomsday scenarios bouncing around in his head with something more mundane.

  She didn't answer immediately. "Now, don't get mad . . ."

  He let out a long breath, feeling the tension leave his body. She wasn't pregnant. She'd just wrecked the car. "What happened, Laura?"

  He'd barely spoken when the sound of an engine became audible behind them. He turned, seeing the worried expression on his sister's face and then the patchwork paint as the old Ford crested the hill fifty yards away.

  "Fawn borrowed it," Laura said hesitantly.

  He stared as the car approached too fast for the rusting suspension and then rocketed past them, its driver intent on whatever she was saying into her cell phone.

  "You've got to be fucking kidding me. . . ."

  "Josh --" Laura started but fell silent when he whipped back around to face her. "I begged my boss on my hands and knees for that car and then didn't sleep for a week fixing it up. For what? So Fawn would have something to drive around in?"

  "It sounds so bad when you say it like that."

  "Don't sass me, Laura. This is why I had to hitchhike from the airport?"

  "I said I was sorry."

  "How much?"