by Thomas Waite
“Nothing.” Dylan pulled himself together. Unsure of the working relationship between Rich and Christine, Dylan decided this wasn’t something to talk about with Rich. “Where the hell is Tony?”
“That’s what I was wondering. I came up here to find him. He hasn’t submitted his time and expenses for two months.”
“Jesus,” muttered Dylan. He looked around the mess that was Tony’s workspace. It was just as well he was not there. It was a mistake to come running to him when something went wrong with his job. Things were different now. Better to tough it out.
“How’s it going, working under Christine?” asked Dylan.
Rich shrugged. “She’s a first-class S.O.B. Or would that be D.O.B.? But she gets it done. I wouldn’t fuck with her, though, if I were you.”
“Perish the thought.” Dylan headed back to his office.
Chapter 7
April 18, 5:00 p.m. New York
Art walked into Christine’s office and closed the door. Her head remained down; only her eyes moved as her glance followed him from the door to her desk.
“How have your ‘classes’ been going with our quasi-resident teacher, Dylan?” she asked, a smirk creeping across her face.
“His knowledge really is amazing. It would be an advantage to have him on the road show.”
Christine shook her head; an errant tress of hair swirled across her face from one side to the other. “No. We agreed we did not want him on this trip.”
“I know, I know, I’m just commenting on his knowledge. Did you know he has perfect recall? His mind compartmentalizes everything, and he can remember even the smallest details. Amazing.” Art pursed his lips as he thought about the two weeks he had spent with Dylan, learning all he could about mobile computing.
“Yes, I do know about his memory. That’s one of the reasons we decided not to include him. Perhaps you should hone your own memory.”
Art took a deep breath as he considered her snide comment. “My comments are rhetorical and don’t require a response.” His annoyance with Christine showed, thinly veiled, throughout the conversation.
“What is it you want, Art? I’m busy with my own preparations.”
“I got a call today about Hyperfōn. We need to make a decision about that proposal.”
Christine stopped tapping the keyboard and sat back in her chair. She raised her head and stared beyond Art at the back wall of her office. “I was surprised the proposal came to us from that source.”
Art nodded his head. He too had been surprised, but recognized the lucrative end of the proposal was too much to reject. “So? Yes or no?” he asked.
Christine did not take more than a moment to reflect on the “lucrative” side of the proposal Art mentioned. Her answer was short and terse: “Yes.” She returned her attention to the keyboard and the numbers that scrolled across the monitor screen.
Art smiled. “I’ll pass that along.”
The sound of a cough at the door caught their attention, and they turned to see Tony standing in the doorway, fidgeting with a handful of papers.
“Sorry to bother you, Christine, but Rich asked me to bring these to you. He would have sent them interoffice package, but he knew I would be returning to Boston on the shuttle this evening and asked me to bring them back with me.” He shuffled his feet and held the papers out toward her.
She snatched them from him, signed them, and shoved them back in his hand.
“Thanks.” Tony turned and left the office with no further discussion.
“Close the door on your way out!” Christine demanded.
When the door closed, Art turned to Christine. “How long do you think he was standing there?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure even if he heard anything, our conversation was too general for him to suspect anything.”
“Right.” Art walked to the door and turned back to face her. “I’ll take care of that matter today.” But he had already lost her attention.
* * *
April 19, 4:00 p.m. Boston
The road show fast approaching, Dylan sat in his office waiting for his three ex-partners to join him. After many long and harrowing hours, they found themselves in Boston with enough time between appointments to be together. While Dylan waited, he thought back over the past two weeks.
Dylan had shuttled back and forth between Boston and New York, spending long hours briefing Art on MobiCelus’s clients and on the state of the current, and emerging, mobile computing market.
He found Art to be a quick study, with an almost uncanny ability to pick out the latest buzzwords and use them to his advantage in a casual, conversational manner. But Dylan recognized one flaw—that Art’s knowledge of technology was mired in smoke and mirrors. Dylan wondered if Art would be able to answer detailed questions about the technology and stay apprised of the ever-changing new developments. He seemed more like a brilliant manipulator—a con artist who focused his abilities on making a great deal of money.
Aware he was still angry at being left behind, Dylan was jarred out of his thoughts by a knock on the door. Heather walked into the office. “These two puppy dogs followed me home. Can I keep them?”
Tony and Rob trotted in behind her, giving their most mournful look. Dylan laughed for the first time in two weeks. “Hey, c’mon in. It’s been a long time since we had a chance to talk. How’s everybody doing?”
Heather jumped right into the discussion with an exciting report. “We’ve got some beautiful new intuitive interfaces in development at the L.A. office.” She filled them in on the rapid growth of the experience design group—the folks who concentrated on making sure any mobile device was intuitive, easy to navigate, and attractive. “Our clients will be blown away by what they see. We designed a new mobile interface for a smartphone screen, and our testing showed the client would likely see an increase in revenues of over thirty percent.” Her enthusiasm blew through the room, infecting Tony and Rob, while Dylan remained quiet, observing his friends.
“That’s incredible. Have you got a demo?” asked Tony.
“Not with me,” she replied. “I could send the application via e-mail, but then I’d have to convince Ivan it’s not a breach of company security.” She rolled her eyes. “That man is a menace.”
“It’s the quiet period,” said Rob. “He’s trying to be extra careful.”
“Is there really any danger?” Heather asked.
Rob turned on her. “Heather, you know damn well the SEC takes this stuff very seriously. The ‘quiet period’ is a restriction. It’s meant to keep companies from improperly hyping the stock before it goes public.”
“Right,” Heather said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Dylan noticed the tension between them but remained quiet.
Rob turned to Dylan. “What’s the news on the road show?”
Dylan took a deep breath. All the members of the team had duties that kept them busy, and he had kept the news of his lack of participation to himself. Now he was glad of that decision because he knew he’d only have to tell it once.
“I’m not going on the road show,” he announced.
“What?” they all said in unison. Tony and Heather crowded around the desk; Rob remained seated across from Dylan and leaned forward.
“Christine gave me the news earlier this month. Of course, it was Art’s decision, but he had Christine tell me. I’m guessing he doesn’t like to give bad news.”
“Is he friggin’ insane?” Tony demanded. “Doesn’t he know that our mobile computing capability is what’s going to drive our valuation?”
“I tried to explain that.”
“And?” said Rob.
“She made it crystal clear Art is going to handle it.”
“You’re fucking kidding me!” said Tony. “Art can’t talk knowledgeably about the mobile computing world. That’s not his strong point. Has he lost his mind?”
“Tony, I pushed as hard as I could. I told both of
them it was a huge mistake, but neither of them would budge.”
“Jesus,” said Heather. “That decision could really hurt us.” She knew they all had visions of their IPO being like Google’s, not some old tired dog. When Google went public, the company’s market value had skyrocketed to over twenty-three billion dollars, making many employees instant paper millionaires.
“I know. It’s unbelievably stupid,” Dylan said.
“So why won’t they let you go?” Rob asked.
“She said they don’t want me to be distracted from running my division.”
“What a load of crap,” said Tony, slamming his hands on the desk.
A moment of silence draped over the group. Rob finally said, “Dylan, I know you’re not going to like my saying this, but this isn’t our firm anymore. It’s a stupid decision, but Art’s in charge now.”
Dylan stared at Rob. He felt his anger rising again. “I’m well aware of that fact, Rob. I’ve spent the last two weeks educating Art, beating this stuff into his head, and, frankly, it’s difficult to educate someone in that timeframe about stuff that’s taken me years to learn. I just don’t want to see him fuck this up.” His last sentence trailed off into oblivion.
The room dropped into a stony silence as Dylan realized he had stooped to shouting at his friends. He didn’t know why he was suddenly so angry with Rob. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m angrier about this than I realized. Of course you’re right. There are going to be changes, and this is just the beginning.”
Rob nodded his head but said nothing more.
“I don’t know, guys,” Heather said, breaking the mood. “This doesn’t seem right at all.”
“Maybe,” said Rob, “but it isn’t the end of the world. Look at how many people Art’s made wealthy. Our employees are going to be ecstatic when we go out.”
“Unless Art fucks up,” Dylan added, allowing his anger to reappear.
“Just keep telling yourself that becoming famous and getting rich in the process is the best revenge,” said Rob.
“It’s not all about the money, Rob!” Heather raised her voice. “It’s about changing how people interact and making our employees happy.” She paused. “Look, Dylan, they’re completely wrong, that’s all. Don’t let these guys get to you.”
Dylan sat back against his chair and sighed. “I know.” He looked at Heather. She said nothing more, just slowly shook her head.
“You know the old saying, Dylan,” said Tony. “You can’t fight City Hall.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a few things I have to clean up, and then I’m heading home.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m on call for any last-minute questions from Art.” Dylan turned to Rob and Heather. “I suppose you two have plans for this weekend?”
“I’m going to a friend’s art opening,” said Heather. She glanced at her watch. “And I’d better be on my way. See you all Monday.” She grabbed her jacket and rushed out the door.
“I’m out of here too,” Rob said. “I’ve got to see Rich before he leaves.”
Tony strolled over to the door and waited for a moment, then turned back to Dylan. “Why do you really think Art and Christine cut you out of the road show?”
Dylan considered the question. “I think they just don’t like having any competition. Maybe Art wants to be the big shot—you know? Doesn’t want one of the new kids around showing him up.”
“Well, maybe there’s more to it than that. Maybe there are other forces at play here.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dylan asked.
“Hey, forget it. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. Shouldn’t have said anything.” Tony turned and walked out the door without further comment.
Dylan returned to his desk and flopped down into his chair. Jesus. So many cryptic comments. Why doesn’t he just speak so I can understand him? Dylan stared at the door, wondering exactly what message Tony was really delivering.
* * *
April 19, 4:45 p.m. Boston
Tony’s rubber-soled shoes trod silently across the thick carpet as he approached his office. The technology team had departed, except for the young man with the orange hair, who was settled in a cubicle at the other end of the building. Tony tossed a wad of paper in the air and, as he caught it, his attention was drawn to the closed door of his office. A thin strip of light oozed out under the door. Tony stopped. He never closed the door of his office, even when he left for a prolonged length of time. The few personal items that he considered his own never left his possession, so there was no reason to close the office door.
He approached quietly and placed his ear against the door. Inside he heard the sound of papers being shuffled. He placed his fingers on the doorknob and turned it, very slowly. As it opened, he saw a man bending over the desk, rifling through the right-hand drawer. Tony opened the door wider until he stood in the office.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The man shot up straight and spun around. Sandeep Nigam stood facing Tony, unable to speak.
“Did you hear me? What the hell are you doing?” Tony demanded.
“I—I, was looking for some paper clips.” Sandeep’s eyes darted around the room, perhaps searching for an escape.
“That is the worst excuse I have ever heard.” He pointed to a small dish on the desk. “What do you think those silver things in the ashtray are? Staples?”
“I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t see them.” He picked up two paper clips and placed them in his pocket.
“What’s this really about, Sandeep? You’re no more looking for paper clips than I am!”
Sandeep stood up. “No, no! Really, I just needed some paper clips. Thank you very much.” He backed against the wall and sidled like a crab until he got to the door, where he spun around and hurried away.
Tony watched Sandeep scramble down the hall and then turned and looked back at his desk. He moved his hands across the papers that lay scattered in every direction until he found a crumpled yellow sheet of paper, which he thrust into his pocket. He reached into the right-hand drawer and retrieved a key that he tossed in the air and caught. A deep frown furrowed Tony’s forehead. This is so wrong, he thought. This was the first time he ever even considered locking his office, much less actually doing it. He turned off the light and walked into the hallway, turned around and locked the door. Yeah, this is so wrong, he thought again.
* * *
April 19, 5:00 p.m. Boston
Sandeep reached his office and slammed the door shut. He leaned against it and raised his head, staring at the ceiling. As the embarrassment and fear subsided, anger began a slow climb up his spine. He paced from the door to the windows, then made a large circle around the room, ending up at his desk. He yanked the chair out from under the desk and flopped down.
“Damn!” he said out loud. “How stupid am I? I should have waited until I knew he was definitely gone. I know he wants my job. He wants to be in the driver’s seat and see me out in the cold. I am not going to have that happen to me. I don’t care what I have to do to prevent him from taking over. I have not worked this long to lose out at this point.” Sandeep looked at his watch. Six p.m. He grabbed his jacket and walked out the door, considering his options.
Chapter 8
April 20, 7:00 a.m. New York
Art and Christine met at the New York office early on that Wednesday, getting ready to start the road show. They reviewed their schedule: first London, where most American companies went to warm up, before returning to America at the end of the week. They hoped to attract a few European investors and were confident their presentations would be well received by the investment banks. They would then continue with the second half of the road show, beginning with San Francisco and Los Angeles, then Chicago and Dallas, and finally working their way east to Boston and New York. Satisfied they had not discounted any important stops, Art called the airport for their private jet.
“Do you have everything?” Christine asked him, as
though he were an errant child.
“Of course I do,” Art snapped. As he closed the office door, his cell phone rang. “Yes?” He stopped and motioned to Christine, who had walked ahead of him toward the elevator. “Yes, it’s all taken care of. Are you sure the security is in place? We don’t want this going wrong, especially while Christine and I are out of town. Okay, stay on it. We’ll be back late on Friday.”
“What was that about?” she asked, tapping her foot.
“Just an update on that other little issue we discussed. Everything is in place. At some point that’s going to be big news, and we need to distance ourselves when it happens.”
“We don’t have time for that right now, Art. We’ll deal with any blowback when we get home. Let’s hope there won’t be any. I assume you made arrangements for the money?”
“All taken care of.”
* * *
April 20, 7:15 a.m. Boston
The halls of the Boston office were quiet. Employees didn’t begin to arrive until around eight o’clock, so the trip down the hall went unobserved. The tall man shut his cell phone and turned the corner at Tony’s office. He retrieved a small leather case from his inside breast pocket and removed a thin, bladed instrument, which he inserted delicately into the lock, twisting it until he heard the lock click open.
He slid into Tony’s office, where his first reaction was that it was the epitome of disorganized clutter—the area around the computer seemed to be the worst. Papers lay across the top of the desk in no particular order.
“How can he work in such disarray?” the man whispered to himself.
He quickly removed the back of the computer and inserted a small device. “Okay. That was simple,” he mumbled. A cursory glance down the quiet hall confirmed that the fourth floor, home of the nerd herd, was still vacant, and the intruder departed in silence, locking the door behind him and moving on silent steps toward the front door and the trip back to New York.
An hour later, Tony arrived in his office, preparing for a meeting with Dylan and Matt to discuss the Hyperfōn launch. As he approached his desk, he knew something was out of order. Others may have seen his own personal version of organization as unsystematic, but he could locate every paper, every pencil, every clip on his desk blindfolded. When asked, he could find an errant note within ten seconds—it was his filing system, and although others might not see it, he certainly did. So he knew when something was out of place, and as his glance roved over the desk, he definitely knew someone had been there.
